How You Came to Leave (Part VII)
Part I: An' Another Thing
Part II: Last to Know
Part III: Wicked Game
Part IV: Talking to the Moon
Part V: Look What You've Done
Part VI: Knife Going In
Part VII: I’m Not Calling You A Liar
I’m not calling you a ghost, just stop haunting me (Florence and the Machine- I’m Not Calling You a Liar)
The bottom drawer in your desk at home is filled with letters you wrote to Rachel but never sent. It is for the best, you’ve managed to convince yourself over time. Rachel is with Finn now, Heather would probably have a seizure if you initiated contact with anyone in Lima anyway, and Santana would just laugh at you. So the letters remain in the desk drawer, untouched, unread. There are confessions of mistakes you have made, pleas for forgiveness, tales of a love that perhaps only one of you thought would last.
In some of the letters, you explain why you left: you tell her about Berkeley’s tactics and about the recruitment offer that flirted more with being emotional blackmail. In other letters, you have a lighter tone as you tell her about your day. Some are about your studies at university; others are just day-to-day accounts about events at the office.
But there is one letter that stands out from the others. It had taken you three seconds to find it.
In your letter, you find yourself telling Rachel about a singer who walked into your office, a 5’8” blonde with amazing blue eyes and how you thought for a brief moment it was Brittany. You explain how for a minute, you were expecting this girl to sound like Brittany, too; instead her accent was too East Coast - Boston, you tell her later in the letter. You go into detail about how she chose to sing “Defying Gravity” and you confess how hard it was to listen to her, because all you could hear was Rachel’s voice, whispering those same notes into your heart. You had to struggle to keep your eyes open because you knew if you closed them - if you allowed yourself to pretend it was Rachel standing in front of you- you would fall apart completely.
You explain how much your chest hurt after the song had ended, how each breath you took cut into your throat. It physically hurt to breathe. You tell Rachel about how you had never felt like that before, ever; how for a moment you seriously wondered if you were having a heart attack. In the letter, you write about how lost you felt, because you knew this singer could be something special because she sounded so much like Rachel, but there was a dark side of you that wanted to put a stop to this singer’s career before it really began, for that very same reason.
She sounds so much like you, you explain frantically in the letter, and that’s the problem. Her voice could almost be yours, but it’s not, and I don’t know what to make of that.
The letter continues as you explain the borderline resentment you felt towards this stranger - she looks like Brittany and sounds like you, you argue to Rachel, but she’s neither, and yet I want her to be both. You confess how unsettling this stranger was, how you could barely look at her without comparing her to the figures you left behind. The letter goes into further detail as you list the comparisons, and even in writing you can feel the desperation behind your words as you ask Rachel why she, not this hybrid clone of her and Brittany, is constantly on your mind. You ask her why you can’t think of anyone else.
Leave me alone, you plead in the letter, please just leave me alone. Stop haunting my every thought, you are driving me insane. I can’t tell the difference anymore between what is real and what isn’t. I’m having trouble separating the times when you were physically next to me and the times you were just there in my dreams. What does that say about me? I can’t sleep because every time I do I dream of you- but when I’m awake all I can think of is you. Why must you always be on my mind?
All I hear is your voice in my dreams. Do you know what that does to a person? To be all they can hear? You are invading my senses and I just need to remember what is real because you are taking that from me. I can feel your touch even when you aren’t next to me. I can taste your kiss but no one is there. What are you doing to me, Rachel? Is it not enough for you to haunt my dreams, you have to claim ownership of my mind, my senses too? Do you not already know your voice is still all I hear?
By the end of the letter though, your tone has shifted slightly. The bitterness - both towards the singer in your office and towards Rachel - has gone, and instead the tone is almost fond. It is the tone a lover usually takes. I wish you were here, the letter concludes. I always wish you were here with me, as wrong as that may be for the both of us.
You jerk your hand back as if the letter is on fire. The paper falls to the floor and for the longest time, you just stare at it, your hurried confessions staring back at you as echoes of another confession begin to torment your memory.
“You chose a Broadway song over me,” you snarl at Rachel after Glee practice came to an end one afternoon beginning of junior year. She raises an eyebrow, a little put off by your tone.
“I did no such thing, Quinn,” she sighs. “I merely suggested that ‘Defying Gravity’ is a more appropriate song choice than whatever Lady Gaga song happened to be playing on your iPod. It wasn’t an attack on you by any means.”
“It was Florence and the Machine!” You snap, aware of how childish you sound but unable to get a grasp on your emotions.
“Quinn,” Rachel sighs again, “can you just drop it for now, please? I’m sorry I didn’t like your song selection, next time I will go along with whatever you choose. It’s been a long day, just let it go.”
“No,” you growl. “I’m not letting this go. You could have stood up for me instead of putting me down in front of everyone.”
“Stood up for you?” Rachel turns towards you, and there’s a flash of anger in her eyes. Something comes over you, but you’re afraid to define it. “You want me to stand up for you?” She steps even closer, and now she’s invading your personal space.
“You mean how you always stand up for me?” She continues, snarling. Your eyes flicker from her eyes to her mouth then back again. You don’t understand what’s coming over you. “You mean like how you stood up for me the past two years?”
“That’s not fair.” You take a step back, trying to establish personal boundaries again. “I’ve changed. You can see that I’ve changed. I’ve made amends, I’m not the same person anymore…”
“From where I stand, Quinn, you are exactly the same person you were two years ago,” she growls, invading your space like you had never stepped back to begin with. You find yourself pressed up against the lockers. You are suddenly acutely aware there is no one else around.
“You haven’t changed at all, Quinn,” Rachel taunts you, her voice dangerously low. “People like you can’t change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at her.
“Forget it,” she says, taking a step back and shaking her head. “Just forget it. I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. We can talk about changing the song tomorrow if it really bothers you. I’m still right, though…”
“No!” Now it’s your turn to take the lead in this song and dance, and you’re the one who has her pressed against the lockers. She stares up at you, her eyes emotionless, her facial expression unimpressed. What happened to the control for which you were once so renowned? How were you reduced to this, this… teenage girl?
“I’ve changed, I promise,” you whisper quietly. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t react at all.
“Why won’t you believe me?” You plead desperately, frustration getting the better of you again. “Why can’t you believe I’ve changed? Why can’t you see I’m trying to make amends? What do I have to prove to you that I’m a better person now?”
“Why do you even care what I think?” Rachel asks you, dropping her eyes to the floor. “You made it perfectly clear in the past that my opinion doesn’t matter to you.”
“Because you’re a good person,” you answer honestly. “And I’m trying to be one, and I figured between the two of us a compromise has to exist somewhere.”
“I’m not a good person,” Rachel argues, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“What?” You stutter, her confession throwing you off. “Of course you are. You’re probably one of the few good people left in Lima.”
“No,” she shakes her head, still looking at the floor. You realize that Rachel is actually on the verge of tears. “You’re wrong. I’m not a good person. I… sometimes I want things too much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a singer on Broadway,” you offer in an attempt to comfort her. Rachel finally looks at you.
“It’s not Broadway that I want right now,” she says, moments before her lips are pressed against yours.
The scary thing is you’re aware of exactly how much time has passed before you kiss her back. You can literally count off the seconds in your head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. But then something inside of you breaks. For exactly three seconds you are frozen, but then it’s you kissing her back. It’s almost intoxicating, the adrenaline rushing through your veins. Nothing has ever felt this way before, ever. It’s one kiss but you’re so close to becoming addicted to the way she fights you only to give in- push you away only to pull you closer, bite your lip only to soothe the pain. One time, addicts warn, one time is all it takes to become addicted to meth; what does it say about Rachel’s kiss?
Suddenly you jerk back, aware of what you’ve done.
This isn’t right, you think to yourself. This isn’t how first kisses are supposed to go. They aren’t supposed to be about desperation or addiction or redemption. Novels aren’t written about those types of romances.
“Sometimes I want things too much,” Rachel repeats quietly, and then she walks away, leaving you standing there alone with your thoughts.
That could have been why that singer had bothered you so much, you realize now. You had asked the singer what her musical ambitions were and she had replied she wanted to write a Broadway musical, and all you could think of was the significance of ‘Defying Gravity’. You remember how you stared at her, Rachel’s song taunting you from a distant stranger. She had explained to you her passion for music, how she had stumbled upon the Broadway scene and had never really gotten over it, how she loved New York more than anything else in the world but she just needed to find herself without it for a while.
“Broadway is everything to me,” this girl had said. “I know one day I’ll return to it because it’s too much a part of me not to return, but first I need to get away from the scene it comes with. I need to find a way to love it from afar. That’s why I’m here, that’s why you need to sign me.” She had hesitated for a moment, looking at you. “You know what it’s like, don’t you? Loving someone or something enough to let it go?”
You had answered truthfully - no, you didn’t know. Because the thing you loved more than anything, the person you loved more than anything, you didn’t let them go. Rachel was taken from you in exchange for your signature on a piece of paper and enrollment in classes at a prestigious institution. You hadn’t wanted to let her go, but your hand had been forced.
It was for the best, Heather had whispered to you at that time, but you knew her well enough to know even she didn’t believe it. It wasn’t for the best for you, it was for the best for Berkeley. It was the best for business. That was all. There was nothing else to it. There had never been anything else to it.
Just business. Always just business.
But on the other hand, the darker part of you you don’t really like to admit exists, has understood something else- Heather’s manipulative streak and Sue’s ruthless ambitious propelled your career into what it is today. You learned from the best, in that regard. You learned how to forfeit emotions to get what you want- to stop at nothing to accomplish your goal. You’ve become tougher, and in the entertainment PR business, it’s what made you so good.
You learned from Heather how to make the client believe they can do anything as long as they are with you but you alone. “It’s about the words,” Heather had said to you, and so you became a liar disguised as a poet - but is there really a difference? Being around Sue taught you how to turn a blind eye to those not tough enough to make it- if you couldn’t survive Cheerio practice, you were cut. Survival of the fittest or something like it, Sue used to say with a trace of fondness in her voice.
(Your disdain for biology is actually something recent. It’s all Sue’s fault)
“Fabray!” Sue’s voice rings out through the hallway. You roll your eyes as you turn around- the last thing you want to go through is another round of verbal sparring before practice.
“It was Hudson, I swear,” you say, putting your hands up in a gesture of surrender. Sue comes to a halt in front of you. She’s fuming.
“My office,” she snarls. “Or I swear on Will’s hair, I will make your life such a living hell that you will go to Rome and ask for an exorcist.”
You follow her in silence, running through your list of supposed crimes. Your body is in shape, your Cheerios have been behaving, and routines are coming along nicely. You have no idea what you’ve done this time. You sit down, but Sue remains standing. She’s angry, tense, and it adds to your confusion, because you really don’t know what you’ve done.
“Do you enjoy making my life difficult?” She asks through gritted teeth. “Because sometimes I swear, I feel like you wake up in the morning and think ‘how do I make life difficult for Coach?’ and then you go out and do it.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this…” You confess. “I thought I was doing a good job?”
“You’re ordinary,” Sue snarls at you. “You’ve become so ordinary it’s actually a little revolting. You used to be the best, Fabray. Do you even remember that? Do you actually remember who you used to be?”
“Of course I do,” you respond. “But that was the old me. I’ve changed, I’ve grown up, I’m a nicer person…”
“No,” Sue interrupts you. “You’re wrong.” She leans across the desk and looks straight into your eyes. You shrink back a little, but she follows the movement.
“You’ve become weak, Fabray,” she hisses at you. “And it makes me sick. It honest to God makes me sick. You know why? Because I know somewhere beneath that mask of a pretty saint you have going on is the same conniving, ruthless bitch of a head Cheerio. That is the person who will lead us to Nationals. Not this saint image of yours. I need the girl who deliberately sold out her best friend to get the head cheerleader position. I need the girl who ordered slushies on people she felt threatened by. I need the girl who commanded power, because the girl sitting in front of me right now? That girl doesn’t have it in her to win. The old you, the great you… That person could have been something special. That girl could have the whole world, if she really wanted it.”
“So I’m asking you, Fabray,” Sue says as she leans back, anger replaced by coldness, “don’t you want that back? You could have the world again. Don’t you miss it?”
“What are you really asking me?” You ask.
“You’re slacking,” Sue says. “You’re ordinary but you could be exceptional. I know you can be, Fabray. I’ve seen hints of this amazing potential you have. I used to believe in you, but you’re starting to make me question my judgment. I’m beginning to think I was wrong about you, Fabray, and I don’t like being wrong. So prove to me my initial thoughts about you were right. Prove to me you’re the best. Prove to me I need you, because otherwise I’m cutting you from the squad.”
“You can’t do that,” you stutter.
“Of course I can,” Sue responds. “Darwin did it first. Survival of the fittest. If you can’t lead this squad, then I don’t want you on it.”
The office is quiet when you walk in early the next morning, and you like it that way. You know that Kelsey and the receptionist, Erika, will wander in about an hour, or more likely, Erika will walk in and Kelsey will be antagonizing her the entire time. Their bizarre friendship is a little like a love/hate relationship, except it’s more that Kelsey loves to antagonize her and Erika hates it. But whatever it is, it works, that’s enough for you not to question it.
After all, what with your relationship with Rachel and your friendship with Santana, you’ve come to realize that some things can’t be explained. And maybe that’s why those types of relationships are so complicated- because every individual who experiences them does feel the need to explain them, to justify them, even though it doesn’t always make sense. There are some situations where words really are inadequate.
How do you explain to someone the reason you get along so well with Santana is because you are both ruthless, not in spite of it? The clash of personalities works because you even each other out- you push each other’s boundaries because no one else will. The clash of two titans doesn’t always end with the fall of Ancient Greece, sometimes -not always, but sometimes- it leads to something great. Or in other times… The fall of Ancient Greece lead to so much more, maybe it was necessary. Would the world have been as enamored with Greek mythology if it hadn’t been disproven? Would Rome have been as inspiring if it hadn’t fallen?
“The world doesn’t always have to end for things to make sense, though,” Rachel had countered one time in History class, and you’re still amazed at how accurately that one sentence describes the different views you had on your relationship. You often play the part of the eternal romantic - you want to believe things always have a meaning. Actions, words, they have to mean something because otherwise what is the purpose in it? Ironically Rachel is more laid-back, and takes on a more let’s just go with the flow approach. You want to believe every relationship can have a happily-ever-after, but Rachel… She might have believed in that, at some point. Now you don’t know what she believes in anymore.
Finn Hudson, you think snidely. She probably believes in Finn Hudson and his stupid dopey smile and how on Earth did you ever find that endearing and how could she think that’s the best part of her day?
“Close your eyes,” you tell Rachel. She glances at you, thrown off by your request. You move closer to her, pulling her body next to yours.
“It’s ok,” you murmur, “I just want to try something real quick. Close your eyes, ok? I promise nothing bad is going to happen.” Reluctance radiating off her in waves, Rachel submits to your request and closes her eyes.
“See,” you whisper in your ear, “it wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“What is this about?” Rachel asks, but her voice is lower, huskier than usual. You don’t make an effort to hide your smirk.
“Do you see me?” You ask from behind her. Rachel scoffs next to you.
“My eyes are closed, Fabray,” she answers. “Right now all I see is darkness. Though I’m also imagining strangling you right now, if that is what you’re after.”
“That’s not what I meant,” you tell her. “Five, ten years from now, when you’re a star on Broadway, am I still a part of your life? Am I there with you?”
For the longest time, Rachel doesn’t answer you. She doesn’t have to. Her silence says it all. While you were dreaming of a life together, Rachel had been dreaming of aspirations that didn’t include you. A part of you had suspected it all along, but it still hurts more than you thought it would.
“I love you,” she says quietly, turning to face you. “You know that. My whole life, I’ve never loved a person as much as I love you. I don’t think I ever will feel this way about someone again. But you have to understand, Quinn, this relationship with you is new. Broadway has always been there. Broadway’s my constant. No matter what happens between the two of us, Broadway will still be there. The same way Glee will always be such a big part of my life.”
“So does that make me in the meantime?” You ask bitterly. “Some high school experiment you’ve engaged in just to pass the time? Research for a future role?”
Rachel looks at you, and something flickers in her eyes. There’s a desperation, a longing, that you hadn’t anticipated. She steps closer to you and you can feel the body heat radiating off her, acting almost on instinct you reach out and play with the fabric of her shirt. Old habits, you’ve come to realize, are incredibly hard to break.
“You’re the girl I want to write musicals about someday,” she whispers softly. “I want to write a Broadway show about how you changed my life. I want people to leave the show and I want them to think, man, that writer’s muse must be someone really special. I want them to watch this show and it will put things in perspective for them, you know? Because it will be about loving something greater than yourself, and I don’t think people really understand what it’s like unless they have experienced it themselves. Broadway can do that, Quinn, Broadway can teach someone about loving something greater than yourself.”
“But I don’t want people to know it’s about you,” she continues quietly. “I don’t want them to know it’s about you because that will lead to a ton of speculation and critics will come to the show and they will read into things that aren’t there, or worse, they will miss the most important part.”
“How am I supposed to explain to critics I love you more than words?” Rachel asks, and you know she’s not really expecting you to answer. “How do I tell them the musical doesn’t even come close to what our relationship is really like, but it’s the best I can do with the words I do have? How do I convince them the romance on stage isn’t really a reflection of what we have because there’s absolutely no way I could find a song that does us justice? Do you see my dilemma, Quinn? Do you see why I don’t want people to know this play, this show that will change people’s lives, do you understand why I don’t want people to know it’s about you?”
“So I’m telling you this now,” she says. “You’re not a high school experiment, you’re the girl I want to write Broadway shows about. You’ll always be on my mind. I’ll always want you beside me, Quinn. I’ll love you always. But shh,” she whispers, putting her fingertips to your lips, echoing your own words. “It’s a secret. No one will ever know.”
You bang angrily at your keyboard, fuming at memories you can’t control, until Kelsey appears with a smile that seems too bright for this early in the morning, and it’s only when you get your coffee that your mood shifts from angry to sullen, and you take to sulking in your office. You’re so engrossed in your work that you don’t actually notice your receptionist has entered the room until she sits down on the other side of your desk.
“I already told you, if I could fire Kelsey for liking Vampire Diaries, I would,” you drawl without looking up. “But as things stand, I can’t fire her over her taste in TV shows, as questionable as they may be.”
“I heard that!” Kelsey shouts from outside your office. “And my TV shows are just fine!”
You roll your eyes, but sneak a glance at Erika. Her wide-eyed expression reminds of you of Emma in a way that is vaguely disconcerting. You shake your head, fighting to keep the memories at the back of your mind. You can’t fall apart, not at a time like this. You simply can’t afford to be haunted by another person. It was Emma, you remind yourself, it was Emma who told you Berkeley was a good fit for you. It was Emma who put the idea of a school like that still being within your reach. It was Emma who reminded you of dreams. Emma was the catalyst.
Your receptionist, you have to remind yourself, isn’t Emma.
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” Erika says quietly. “In private.” You nod and get up to close the door. Kelsey glances at you, surprised at being shut out. To be honest you are too, but you aren’t going to question it.
“What is it?” You ask quietly. “Is everything ok?”
“A lawyer contacted the office a couple of days ago,” she says. You school your features to reveal nothing. It’s not that uncommon, in the music industry - some scorned artist feels they have been shunned and come after everyone who ever said no to them. Uncommon, unpleasant, but nothing you don’t know how to deal with.
“They have a client, you see, who is in possession of a script? I’m not sure if it’s a manuscript or an actual script-script,” she tells you. “And apparently there’s something in it that’s a little sensitive, and they need to run it through you first.”
“We don’t deal with authors,” you point out. “And I’m a PR rep, not a lawyer, why do they need my approval for a script anyway?”
“Well,” Erika shifts uncomfortably. “It’s actually a Broadway musical. And apparently the writer drew their inspiration from you in high school. So that’s why their lawyer is contacting us, just to make sure you’re ok with the material being made public.”
It takes three seconds for the world to end.
One Mississippi…
Your every secret, your every confession, your every thought, is now revealed in a manuscript. Words you had whispered in the middle of the night, gazing up at the stars, will now be heard by the entire world. You’ve never felt this exposed, this vulnerable, and the fear that suddenly consumes you makes you almost nauseous.
It isn’t fair. You haven’t done anything to deserve this. What you had confessed was intimate, your relationship wasn’t meant to be shared with the rest of the world. Now New York will claim ownership to something that is theirs by right, critics will examine your words and may or may not deem them worthy… The worse, someone will actually be claiming your words as their own. A stranger will confess how they’ve never felt this way before, ever- a stranger will make your confessions come alive again.
Haven’t your ghosts been haunting you enough without you having to experience a physical reminder of what happened all those years ago?
Two Mississippi…
Heather will hit the roof when she finds out about the musical, you realize suddenly. This was exactly what she was afraid of when Berkeley first expressed an interest in you your junior year in high school. It was why she was constantly drifting in and out of your life, always lurking at the back of your mind. She was there to make sure your secrets wouldn’t haunt you.
But there was no way either of you could have anticipated something like this. The fear was your secrets would be revealed on a live TV show in a desperate attempt to salvage a failing career. You weren’t supposed to be used as a way to break into the industry, much less an industry located on the opposite coast.
You wonder briefly -desperately- if there is any way Heather will be able to censure the musical, but you have been in the entertainment industry long enough to know that is nothing more than wishful thinking. Broadway is notoriously hard to censure, and you suspect that if a legal team is already on board with the author, then your attempts would probably be blocked before you even started.
Three Mississippi…
“Does the name Rachel Berry mean anything to you?” Your receptionist continues innocently, unaware of how your entire world is crashing down around you. “She’s the writer behind this musical.”
Not stealing if you don't acknowledge it (aka Disclaimers)
- still don't own Glee
- Title is taken from the song "I'm Not Calling You A Liar" by Florence and the Machine
- I don't know the Broadway scene at all, so I don't know whether Rachel genuinely would be able to write a musical, but let's just say for the sake of argument she can...
- Special shout-out to kreia03, who was patient enough to play along with discussions over the order of the flashbacks and whether the receptionist should actually have a name... :-)
- the Broadway flashback is a parallel to Quinn's speech in the previous chapter about words
Part VIII: Told You So
Part IX: I Gave You All
Part X: I Adore You
Part XI: Love Is No Big Truth
Part XII: Escape
Part XIII: No Longer What You Require
Part XIV: This Will All Make Perfect Sense Someday
Part XV: Our Love
Part II: Last to Know
Part III: Wicked Game
Part IV: Talking to the Moon
Part V: Look What You've Done
Part VI: Knife Going In
Part VII: I’m Not Calling You A Liar
I’m not calling you a ghost, just stop haunting me (Florence and the Machine- I’m Not Calling You a Liar)
The bottom drawer in your desk at home is filled with letters you wrote to Rachel but never sent. It is for the best, you’ve managed to convince yourself over time. Rachel is with Finn now, Heather would probably have a seizure if you initiated contact with anyone in Lima anyway, and Santana would just laugh at you. So the letters remain in the desk drawer, untouched, unread. There are confessions of mistakes you have made, pleas for forgiveness, tales of a love that perhaps only one of you thought would last.
In some of the letters, you explain why you left: you tell her about Berkeley’s tactics and about the recruitment offer that flirted more with being emotional blackmail. In other letters, you have a lighter tone as you tell her about your day. Some are about your studies at university; others are just day-to-day accounts about events at the office.
But there is one letter that stands out from the others. It had taken you three seconds to find it.
In your letter, you find yourself telling Rachel about a singer who walked into your office, a 5’8” blonde with amazing blue eyes and how you thought for a brief moment it was Brittany. You explain how for a minute, you were expecting this girl to sound like Brittany, too; instead her accent was too East Coast - Boston, you tell her later in the letter. You go into detail about how she chose to sing “Defying Gravity” and you confess how hard it was to listen to her, because all you could hear was Rachel’s voice, whispering those same notes into your heart. You had to struggle to keep your eyes open because you knew if you closed them - if you allowed yourself to pretend it was Rachel standing in front of you- you would fall apart completely.
You explain how much your chest hurt after the song had ended, how each breath you took cut into your throat. It physically hurt to breathe. You tell Rachel about how you had never felt like that before, ever; how for a moment you seriously wondered if you were having a heart attack. In the letter, you write about how lost you felt, because you knew this singer could be something special because she sounded so much like Rachel, but there was a dark side of you that wanted to put a stop to this singer’s career before it really began, for that very same reason.
She sounds so much like you, you explain frantically in the letter, and that’s the problem. Her voice could almost be yours, but it’s not, and I don’t know what to make of that.
The letter continues as you explain the borderline resentment you felt towards this stranger - she looks like Brittany and sounds like you, you argue to Rachel, but she’s neither, and yet I want her to be both. You confess how unsettling this stranger was, how you could barely look at her without comparing her to the figures you left behind. The letter goes into further detail as you list the comparisons, and even in writing you can feel the desperation behind your words as you ask Rachel why she, not this hybrid clone of her and Brittany, is constantly on your mind. You ask her why you can’t think of anyone else.
Leave me alone, you plead in the letter, please just leave me alone. Stop haunting my every thought, you are driving me insane. I can’t tell the difference anymore between what is real and what isn’t. I’m having trouble separating the times when you were physically next to me and the times you were just there in my dreams. What does that say about me? I can’t sleep because every time I do I dream of you- but when I’m awake all I can think of is you. Why must you always be on my mind?
All I hear is your voice in my dreams. Do you know what that does to a person? To be all they can hear? You are invading my senses and I just need to remember what is real because you are taking that from me. I can feel your touch even when you aren’t next to me. I can taste your kiss but no one is there. What are you doing to me, Rachel? Is it not enough for you to haunt my dreams, you have to claim ownership of my mind, my senses too? Do you not already know your voice is still all I hear?
By the end of the letter though, your tone has shifted slightly. The bitterness - both towards the singer in your office and towards Rachel - has gone, and instead the tone is almost fond. It is the tone a lover usually takes. I wish you were here, the letter concludes. I always wish you were here with me, as wrong as that may be for the both of us.
You jerk your hand back as if the letter is on fire. The paper falls to the floor and for the longest time, you just stare at it, your hurried confessions staring back at you as echoes of another confession begin to torment your memory.
“You chose a Broadway song over me,” you snarl at Rachel after Glee practice came to an end one afternoon beginning of junior year. She raises an eyebrow, a little put off by your tone.
“I did no such thing, Quinn,” she sighs. “I merely suggested that ‘Defying Gravity’ is a more appropriate song choice than whatever Lady Gaga song happened to be playing on your iPod. It wasn’t an attack on you by any means.”
“It was Florence and the Machine!” You snap, aware of how childish you sound but unable to get a grasp on your emotions.
“Quinn,” Rachel sighs again, “can you just drop it for now, please? I’m sorry I didn’t like your song selection, next time I will go along with whatever you choose. It’s been a long day, just let it go.”
“No,” you growl. “I’m not letting this go. You could have stood up for me instead of putting me down in front of everyone.”
“Stood up for you?” Rachel turns towards you, and there’s a flash of anger in her eyes. Something comes over you, but you’re afraid to define it. “You want me to stand up for you?” She steps even closer, and now she’s invading your personal space.
“You mean how you always stand up for me?” She continues, snarling. Your eyes flicker from her eyes to her mouth then back again. You don’t understand what’s coming over you. “You mean like how you stood up for me the past two years?”
“That’s not fair.” You take a step back, trying to establish personal boundaries again. “I’ve changed. You can see that I’ve changed. I’ve made amends, I’m not the same person anymore…”
“From where I stand, Quinn, you are exactly the same person you were two years ago,” she growls, invading your space like you had never stepped back to begin with. You find yourself pressed up against the lockers. You are suddenly acutely aware there is no one else around.
“You haven’t changed at all, Quinn,” Rachel taunts you, her voice dangerously low. “People like you can’t change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at her.
“Forget it,” she says, taking a step back and shaking her head. “Just forget it. I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. We can talk about changing the song tomorrow if it really bothers you. I’m still right, though…”
“No!” Now it’s your turn to take the lead in this song and dance, and you’re the one who has her pressed against the lockers. She stares up at you, her eyes emotionless, her facial expression unimpressed. What happened to the control for which you were once so renowned? How were you reduced to this, this… teenage girl?
“I’ve changed, I promise,” you whisper quietly. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t react at all.
“Why won’t you believe me?” You plead desperately, frustration getting the better of you again. “Why can’t you believe I’ve changed? Why can’t you see I’m trying to make amends? What do I have to prove to you that I’m a better person now?”
“Why do you even care what I think?” Rachel asks you, dropping her eyes to the floor. “You made it perfectly clear in the past that my opinion doesn’t matter to you.”
“Because you’re a good person,” you answer honestly. “And I’m trying to be one, and I figured between the two of us a compromise has to exist somewhere.”
“I’m not a good person,” Rachel argues, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“What?” You stutter, her confession throwing you off. “Of course you are. You’re probably one of the few good people left in Lima.”
“No,” she shakes her head, still looking at the floor. You realize that Rachel is actually on the verge of tears. “You’re wrong. I’m not a good person. I… sometimes I want things too much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a singer on Broadway,” you offer in an attempt to comfort her. Rachel finally looks at you.
“It’s not Broadway that I want right now,” she says, moments before her lips are pressed against yours.
The scary thing is you’re aware of exactly how much time has passed before you kiss her back. You can literally count off the seconds in your head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. But then something inside of you breaks. For exactly three seconds you are frozen, but then it’s you kissing her back. It’s almost intoxicating, the adrenaline rushing through your veins. Nothing has ever felt this way before, ever. It’s one kiss but you’re so close to becoming addicted to the way she fights you only to give in- push you away only to pull you closer, bite your lip only to soothe the pain. One time, addicts warn, one time is all it takes to become addicted to meth; what does it say about Rachel’s kiss?
Suddenly you jerk back, aware of what you’ve done.
This isn’t right, you think to yourself. This isn’t how first kisses are supposed to go. They aren’t supposed to be about desperation or addiction or redemption. Novels aren’t written about those types of romances.
“Sometimes I want things too much,” Rachel repeats quietly, and then she walks away, leaving you standing there alone with your thoughts.
That could have been why that singer had bothered you so much, you realize now. You had asked the singer what her musical ambitions were and she had replied she wanted to write a Broadway musical, and all you could think of was the significance of ‘Defying Gravity’. You remember how you stared at her, Rachel’s song taunting you from a distant stranger. She had explained to you her passion for music, how she had stumbled upon the Broadway scene and had never really gotten over it, how she loved New York more than anything else in the world but she just needed to find herself without it for a while.
“Broadway is everything to me,” this girl had said. “I know one day I’ll return to it because it’s too much a part of me not to return, but first I need to get away from the scene it comes with. I need to find a way to love it from afar. That’s why I’m here, that’s why you need to sign me.” She had hesitated for a moment, looking at you. “You know what it’s like, don’t you? Loving someone or something enough to let it go?”
You had answered truthfully - no, you didn’t know. Because the thing you loved more than anything, the person you loved more than anything, you didn’t let them go. Rachel was taken from you in exchange for your signature on a piece of paper and enrollment in classes at a prestigious institution. You hadn’t wanted to let her go, but your hand had been forced.
It was for the best, Heather had whispered to you at that time, but you knew her well enough to know even she didn’t believe it. It wasn’t for the best for you, it was for the best for Berkeley. It was the best for business. That was all. There was nothing else to it. There had never been anything else to it.
Just business. Always just business.
But on the other hand, the darker part of you you don’t really like to admit exists, has understood something else- Heather’s manipulative streak and Sue’s ruthless ambitious propelled your career into what it is today. You learned from the best, in that regard. You learned how to forfeit emotions to get what you want- to stop at nothing to accomplish your goal. You’ve become tougher, and in the entertainment PR business, it’s what made you so good.
You learned from Heather how to make the client believe they can do anything as long as they are with you but you alone. “It’s about the words,” Heather had said to you, and so you became a liar disguised as a poet - but is there really a difference? Being around Sue taught you how to turn a blind eye to those not tough enough to make it- if you couldn’t survive Cheerio practice, you were cut. Survival of the fittest or something like it, Sue used to say with a trace of fondness in her voice.
(Your disdain for biology is actually something recent. It’s all Sue’s fault)
“Fabray!” Sue’s voice rings out through the hallway. You roll your eyes as you turn around- the last thing you want to go through is another round of verbal sparring before practice.
“It was Hudson, I swear,” you say, putting your hands up in a gesture of surrender. Sue comes to a halt in front of you. She’s fuming.
“My office,” she snarls. “Or I swear on Will’s hair, I will make your life such a living hell that you will go to Rome and ask for an exorcist.”
You follow her in silence, running through your list of supposed crimes. Your body is in shape, your Cheerios have been behaving, and routines are coming along nicely. You have no idea what you’ve done this time. You sit down, but Sue remains standing. She’s angry, tense, and it adds to your confusion, because you really don’t know what you’ve done.
“Do you enjoy making my life difficult?” She asks through gritted teeth. “Because sometimes I swear, I feel like you wake up in the morning and think ‘how do I make life difficult for Coach?’ and then you go out and do it.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this…” You confess. “I thought I was doing a good job?”
“You’re ordinary,” Sue snarls at you. “You’ve become so ordinary it’s actually a little revolting. You used to be the best, Fabray. Do you even remember that? Do you actually remember who you used to be?”
“Of course I do,” you respond. “But that was the old me. I’ve changed, I’ve grown up, I’m a nicer person…”
“No,” Sue interrupts you. “You’re wrong.” She leans across the desk and looks straight into your eyes. You shrink back a little, but she follows the movement.
“You’ve become weak, Fabray,” she hisses at you. “And it makes me sick. It honest to God makes me sick. You know why? Because I know somewhere beneath that mask of a pretty saint you have going on is the same conniving, ruthless bitch of a head Cheerio. That is the person who will lead us to Nationals. Not this saint image of yours. I need the girl who deliberately sold out her best friend to get the head cheerleader position. I need the girl who ordered slushies on people she felt threatened by. I need the girl who commanded power, because the girl sitting in front of me right now? That girl doesn’t have it in her to win. The old you, the great you… That person could have been something special. That girl could have the whole world, if she really wanted it.”
“So I’m asking you, Fabray,” Sue says as she leans back, anger replaced by coldness, “don’t you want that back? You could have the world again. Don’t you miss it?”
“What are you really asking me?” You ask.
“You’re slacking,” Sue says. “You’re ordinary but you could be exceptional. I know you can be, Fabray. I’ve seen hints of this amazing potential you have. I used to believe in you, but you’re starting to make me question my judgment. I’m beginning to think I was wrong about you, Fabray, and I don’t like being wrong. So prove to me my initial thoughts about you were right. Prove to me you’re the best. Prove to me I need you, because otherwise I’m cutting you from the squad.”
“You can’t do that,” you stutter.
“Of course I can,” Sue responds. “Darwin did it first. Survival of the fittest. If you can’t lead this squad, then I don’t want you on it.”
The office is quiet when you walk in early the next morning, and you like it that way. You know that Kelsey and the receptionist, Erika, will wander in about an hour, or more likely, Erika will walk in and Kelsey will be antagonizing her the entire time. Their bizarre friendship is a little like a love/hate relationship, except it’s more that Kelsey loves to antagonize her and Erika hates it. But whatever it is, it works, that’s enough for you not to question it.
After all, what with your relationship with Rachel and your friendship with Santana, you’ve come to realize that some things can’t be explained. And maybe that’s why those types of relationships are so complicated- because every individual who experiences them does feel the need to explain them, to justify them, even though it doesn’t always make sense. There are some situations where words really are inadequate.
How do you explain to someone the reason you get along so well with Santana is because you are both ruthless, not in spite of it? The clash of personalities works because you even each other out- you push each other’s boundaries because no one else will. The clash of two titans doesn’t always end with the fall of Ancient Greece, sometimes -not always, but sometimes- it leads to something great. Or in other times… The fall of Ancient Greece lead to so much more, maybe it was necessary. Would the world have been as enamored with Greek mythology if it hadn’t been disproven? Would Rome have been as inspiring if it hadn’t fallen?
“The world doesn’t always have to end for things to make sense, though,” Rachel had countered one time in History class, and you’re still amazed at how accurately that one sentence describes the different views you had on your relationship. You often play the part of the eternal romantic - you want to believe things always have a meaning. Actions, words, they have to mean something because otherwise what is the purpose in it? Ironically Rachel is more laid-back, and takes on a more let’s just go with the flow approach. You want to believe every relationship can have a happily-ever-after, but Rachel… She might have believed in that, at some point. Now you don’t know what she believes in anymore.
Finn Hudson, you think snidely. She probably believes in Finn Hudson and his stupid dopey smile and how on Earth did you ever find that endearing and how could she think that’s the best part of her day?
“Close your eyes,” you tell Rachel. She glances at you, thrown off by your request. You move closer to her, pulling her body next to yours.
“It’s ok,” you murmur, “I just want to try something real quick. Close your eyes, ok? I promise nothing bad is going to happen.” Reluctance radiating off her in waves, Rachel submits to your request and closes her eyes.
“See,” you whisper in your ear, “it wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“What is this about?” Rachel asks, but her voice is lower, huskier than usual. You don’t make an effort to hide your smirk.
“Do you see me?” You ask from behind her. Rachel scoffs next to you.
“My eyes are closed, Fabray,” she answers. “Right now all I see is darkness. Though I’m also imagining strangling you right now, if that is what you’re after.”
“That’s not what I meant,” you tell her. “Five, ten years from now, when you’re a star on Broadway, am I still a part of your life? Am I there with you?”
For the longest time, Rachel doesn’t answer you. She doesn’t have to. Her silence says it all. While you were dreaming of a life together, Rachel had been dreaming of aspirations that didn’t include you. A part of you had suspected it all along, but it still hurts more than you thought it would.
“I love you,” she says quietly, turning to face you. “You know that. My whole life, I’ve never loved a person as much as I love you. I don’t think I ever will feel this way about someone again. But you have to understand, Quinn, this relationship with you is new. Broadway has always been there. Broadway’s my constant. No matter what happens between the two of us, Broadway will still be there. The same way Glee will always be such a big part of my life.”
“So does that make me in the meantime?” You ask bitterly. “Some high school experiment you’ve engaged in just to pass the time? Research for a future role?”
Rachel looks at you, and something flickers in her eyes. There’s a desperation, a longing, that you hadn’t anticipated. She steps closer to you and you can feel the body heat radiating off her, acting almost on instinct you reach out and play with the fabric of her shirt. Old habits, you’ve come to realize, are incredibly hard to break.
“You’re the girl I want to write musicals about someday,” she whispers softly. “I want to write a Broadway show about how you changed my life. I want people to leave the show and I want them to think, man, that writer’s muse must be someone really special. I want them to watch this show and it will put things in perspective for them, you know? Because it will be about loving something greater than yourself, and I don’t think people really understand what it’s like unless they have experienced it themselves. Broadway can do that, Quinn, Broadway can teach someone about loving something greater than yourself.”
“But I don’t want people to know it’s about you,” she continues quietly. “I don’t want them to know it’s about you because that will lead to a ton of speculation and critics will come to the show and they will read into things that aren’t there, or worse, they will miss the most important part.”
“How am I supposed to explain to critics I love you more than words?” Rachel asks, and you know she’s not really expecting you to answer. “How do I tell them the musical doesn’t even come close to what our relationship is really like, but it’s the best I can do with the words I do have? How do I convince them the romance on stage isn’t really a reflection of what we have because there’s absolutely no way I could find a song that does us justice? Do you see my dilemma, Quinn? Do you see why I don’t want people to know this play, this show that will change people’s lives, do you understand why I don’t want people to know it’s about you?”
“So I’m telling you this now,” she says. “You’re not a high school experiment, you’re the girl I want to write Broadway shows about. You’ll always be on my mind. I’ll always want you beside me, Quinn. I’ll love you always. But shh,” she whispers, putting her fingertips to your lips, echoing your own words. “It’s a secret. No one will ever know.”
You bang angrily at your keyboard, fuming at memories you can’t control, until Kelsey appears with a smile that seems too bright for this early in the morning, and it’s only when you get your coffee that your mood shifts from angry to sullen, and you take to sulking in your office. You’re so engrossed in your work that you don’t actually notice your receptionist has entered the room until she sits down on the other side of your desk.
“I already told you, if I could fire Kelsey for liking Vampire Diaries, I would,” you drawl without looking up. “But as things stand, I can’t fire her over her taste in TV shows, as questionable as they may be.”
“I heard that!” Kelsey shouts from outside your office. “And my TV shows are just fine!”
You roll your eyes, but sneak a glance at Erika. Her wide-eyed expression reminds of you of Emma in a way that is vaguely disconcerting. You shake your head, fighting to keep the memories at the back of your mind. You can’t fall apart, not at a time like this. You simply can’t afford to be haunted by another person. It was Emma, you remind yourself, it was Emma who told you Berkeley was a good fit for you. It was Emma who put the idea of a school like that still being within your reach. It was Emma who reminded you of dreams. Emma was the catalyst.
Your receptionist, you have to remind yourself, isn’t Emma.
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” Erika says quietly. “In private.” You nod and get up to close the door. Kelsey glances at you, surprised at being shut out. To be honest you are too, but you aren’t going to question it.
“What is it?” You ask quietly. “Is everything ok?”
“A lawyer contacted the office a couple of days ago,” she says. You school your features to reveal nothing. It’s not that uncommon, in the music industry - some scorned artist feels they have been shunned and come after everyone who ever said no to them. Uncommon, unpleasant, but nothing you don’t know how to deal with.
“They have a client, you see, who is in possession of a script? I’m not sure if it’s a manuscript or an actual script-script,” she tells you. “And apparently there’s something in it that’s a little sensitive, and they need to run it through you first.”
“We don’t deal with authors,” you point out. “And I’m a PR rep, not a lawyer, why do they need my approval for a script anyway?”
“Well,” Erika shifts uncomfortably. “It’s actually a Broadway musical. And apparently the writer drew their inspiration from you in high school. So that’s why their lawyer is contacting us, just to make sure you’re ok with the material being made public.”
It takes three seconds for the world to end.
One Mississippi…
Your every secret, your every confession, your every thought, is now revealed in a manuscript. Words you had whispered in the middle of the night, gazing up at the stars, will now be heard by the entire world. You’ve never felt this exposed, this vulnerable, and the fear that suddenly consumes you makes you almost nauseous.
It isn’t fair. You haven’t done anything to deserve this. What you had confessed was intimate, your relationship wasn’t meant to be shared with the rest of the world. Now New York will claim ownership to something that is theirs by right, critics will examine your words and may or may not deem them worthy… The worse, someone will actually be claiming your words as their own. A stranger will confess how they’ve never felt this way before, ever- a stranger will make your confessions come alive again.
Haven’t your ghosts been haunting you enough without you having to experience a physical reminder of what happened all those years ago?
Two Mississippi…
Heather will hit the roof when she finds out about the musical, you realize suddenly. This was exactly what she was afraid of when Berkeley first expressed an interest in you your junior year in high school. It was why she was constantly drifting in and out of your life, always lurking at the back of your mind. She was there to make sure your secrets wouldn’t haunt you.
But there was no way either of you could have anticipated something like this. The fear was your secrets would be revealed on a live TV show in a desperate attempt to salvage a failing career. You weren’t supposed to be used as a way to break into the industry, much less an industry located on the opposite coast.
You wonder briefly -desperately- if there is any way Heather will be able to censure the musical, but you have been in the entertainment industry long enough to know that is nothing more than wishful thinking. Broadway is notoriously hard to censure, and you suspect that if a legal team is already on board with the author, then your attempts would probably be blocked before you even started.
Three Mississippi…
“Does the name Rachel Berry mean anything to you?” Your receptionist continues innocently, unaware of how your entire world is crashing down around you. “She’s the writer behind this musical.”
Not stealing if you don't acknowledge it (aka Disclaimers)
- still don't own Glee
- Title is taken from the song "I'm Not Calling You A Liar" by Florence and the Machine
- I don't know the Broadway scene at all, so I don't know whether Rachel genuinely would be able to write a musical, but let's just say for the sake of argument she can...
- Special shout-out to kreia03, who was patient enough to play along with discussions over the order of the flashbacks and whether the receptionist should actually have a name... :-)
- the Broadway flashback is a parallel to Quinn's speech in the previous chapter about words
Part VIII: Told You So
Part IX: I Gave You All
Part X: I Adore You
Part XI: Love Is No Big Truth
Part XII: Escape
Part XIII: No Longer What You Require
Part XIV: This Will All Make Perfect Sense Someday
Part XV: Our Love