A/N: The title was taken from Tom McRae's song "Got a Suitcase, Got regrets", which also inspired this story.

It began with a careless retort from Kitty that implied an underlying homoerotic relationship. Suddenly, my subconscious decided to play a corrupt game that turned the thoughtless comment into vivid dreams; snippets of Quinn pinning me against her old high school locker, against the auditorium piano, and under the bleachers.

My confusion was augmented by guilt; of her as the object of my midnight arousals, and of Sam being the unsuspecting meantime boy. Sam, who had turned into my personal cheerleader— and had given up all hopes of his own happy ending with Mercedes—was lately satisfied with holding my hand, silent and sanguine.

My thoughts travelled back a few years ago, probing my memory of the time I felt genuinely serene. Flashes of white linen, an IV drip, a doozy Quinn Fabray smiling, and the elation of knowing the most beautiful girl I have ever known was alive; it came crashing likes waves against my chest. I sobbed—I didn't even realize tears were already falling— and it broke Sam's reverie. He instinctively held me close and I realized the warmth of his body felt nice, exactly the kind that would shield me from the chills of a cold autumn morning. It felt safe as well. And it should've been enough.

And it should've been okay with me that Quinn wouldn't make it to Santana and Brittany's wedding. After all, I found out that it only needed a couple of days of swearing and grumbling—and an impressive Crate and Barrel gift cards as an advanced wedding gift—for the bride-to-be to get over it. But it was the news of the former Head Cheerio's decline to attend that caused me further aggravation and turmoil.

"Quinn's not going to my wedding."

"I—okay, that's—why would she not? That's—but why?"

Santana smirked at my sputtering. "Some stupid conference thing. In fucking Ireland…or Scotland—same difference. But yeah, there you go. The great Yale student chooses another country over me," the Latina rambled then frowned over the rehash of her exchange earlier with Quinn.

"Oh."

"What?"

"So…it's not because she's…she doesn't approve of your wedding with Brittany?"

Santana stared at me blankly. "Why would she not approve of my wedding?"

"I—" It was an absurd question. I stammered while my eyes darted everywhere.

"Do I have to remind you Quinn and I slept together? So if you're thinking that she's turned into this bizarro Christian—."

I wrung my hands together nervously. "Well, no, maybe because she might find it…awkward? Because you know, you slept together." The last part was barely a whisper that it took Santana a few seconds to figure out what I said.

"On the contrary, after rubbing vaginas together, we turned into this sappy, twisted version of the Yaya sisterhood."

"That's really crass, Santana. And besides, that's your perspective. Maybe Quinn's a little bit uncomfortable about it. You were—I'm assuming," I amended. With Quinn, I'm never quite sure about anything. "Her first Sapphic encounter. That's quite…life changing."

"You don't know Quinn like I do, Berry," Santana interjected—and that statement oddly hurt me. "When we slept together, we knew what we were doing. She's not secretly in love with me, if that's what you're getting at."

"Okay," I relented. I felt suffocated for reasons I could not process at the moment, and wanted to leave the room. To my dismay, Santana felt the need to continue her monologue about the adventures of Quinn and Santana, temporarily forgetting her indignant protests against our blonde friend's choice.

"I mean, like I said, it sealed our friendship—I should've done that a long time ago and made her less of a bitch instead of her throwing me down to the bottom of the pyramid," Santana pouted at the memory of Quinn reclaiming her thrown in Cheerios and dozen creative ways the blonde tortured her. "That was fucking nine circles of hell."

I nodded and gave Santana a sympathetic look. I may have witnessed a thing or two of how Quinn epically made Santana's life miserable at Cheerios. "Well, I think you should talk to Quinn at some point—maybe tonight, or I don't know, when your temper is no longer flaring up—and maybe you two would find a diplomatic compromise."

Santana snorted. "Please, When Q makes up her mind, that's it."

"Okay," I nodded again, unsure of what else to say because Quinn's absence clearly affected my former roommate.

Maybe I could try and convince Quinn later to attend the wedding—a thought that made me internally wince. Maybe that's not a really good idea after all. I forced herself to think of happier moments in order to shake off the memory of the accident. Somehow that led to me imagining the two Cheerios in bed, drunk yet very lucid with what they were doing.

"Berry," Santana said with a finger snap. "I was talking to you."

"Oh, I apologize. I was just thinking—"

"About Q?"

I was about to agree until she saw the growing devious smile on the other girl's face. "I…"

"Imagining Q and her newly honed skills?"

I cringed then raised her hands to stop Santana. "I don't really want to hear that, Santana. That's—that's disrespectful to Quinn."

"You don't wanna know the details?" The Latina said with a now full-blown smirk. "Like honest to goodness you're not the least bit curious? Come to think of it, you're the only one who's not asked."

When met with tentative silence, Santana took it as a positive response. "She's a quick study. Took me just one round for her to pick up the essentials and—"

"Santana!"

"—and let's just say the second round was fucking memorable."

"I told you I don't want to—"

"Her lips are totally made for—"

"Oh my god I'm leaving!"

The Latina held on to my wrist in an attempt to stop a walk out. "Aw, come on, Berry!"

I turned around and pointed an accusatory finger at the devious girl. "I went here to see if you needed comforting—"

"Quinn definitely gave me a lot of comfort," the Latina said pointedly.

"I don't want to know how good Quinn is in bed!" I protested with arms flailing, followed by a frustrated huff when Santana waved off my outcry and muttered something about me being "Lady Macbeth protesting way too much."

"Santana," I pathetically objected once more before issuing a final glare. "I really don't think it is right for you to brag about your conquests, especially Quinn."

She finally raised her hands in surrender. "Quinn's not going because of school requirements, that's it. She still needs to get her ass here because we're the Unholy Trinity and it would feel…incomplete without her. Plus it'll make Brits really sad."

"However, just to be…safe. I think you should clarify with," I paused before swallowing visibly, "Quinn if there are no…lingering or residual feelings."

Santana's face contorted in bewilderment. "There are no residual feelings because there were no feelings to begin with. And it's very disturbing that you're zeroing on that."

"I'm just…I suppose, you could say, I'm more inquisitive about it now. It's not like I can just call Quinn and ask about it."

Santana regarded—no, eyeballed—me for some time. "What's this really about, Berry?"

"You and Quinn."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"Fine."

My eyes widened in alarm as soon as the Latina took out her phone to call someone and pressed the speaker function.

"W-what are you doing, San—"

"San, I have no time for verbal sparring." Quinn's voice reverberated beautifully with the acoustic of the almost empty choir room.

"I'm with Berry right now," Santana declared, issuing a silent warning. Rachel could hear Quinn's breathing and slight cackling of what the singer guessed to be stacks of paper. She imagined with fondness the former Cheerio taking the call in bed, with the phone pressed closely while reading a book or maybe school notes.

"Hi, Rachel."

The greeting was lukewarm, which made me frown a bit. Nonetheless, I forced herself to project a much chipper response. "Quinn, I hope everything's okay your side of world!"

I was rewarded with a slight chuckle and a nasally hum of affirmation.

"Berry here wants me to clarify something with you, Q," the Latina interrupted.

I stamped her foot in objection. "Oh my god, Santana! Quinn, don't listen to her!"

"Girlfriend," Santana began with a mocking tone, "here wants to know if you have unrequited feelings for me."

I groaned loudly—too dramatically— as if ensuring that Quinn could clearly hear my displeasure. "You are the most despicable person I have the misfortune of knowing!"

"What did I do this time to merit that distinction, Rachel?" Quinn piped up, clearly amused at my expense.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no! I was talking to Santana. She is the most—"

"Shut up, Streisand. I believe Quinn has to answer my question. Well, Fabray? Do you?"

"None."

My focus shifted to the phone screen where the voice came from. There was finality in that curt statement that I found myself sighing in relief—something that I'm sure did not escape Santana.

"Is that all?" Quinn asked after a moment of awkward silence among the three girls. "S, about earlier—"

"I'll call you later, Q." Santana muttered before turning off the phone, effectively cutting Quinn from whatever it was she was saying.

"You really are rude," I huffed.

"And you are very bi-curious about Quinn and her Sapphic experience and feelings. Now, you know. And you should thank me, instead of insulting me."

"Why, I hardly—fine, thank you. It was certainly enlightening to some extent," I relented. "Now that you seem to be in a better mood, I'll excuse myself—or you should because I need the choir room. But you're, of course, very welcome to stay and—"

Santana was already at the door and didn't bother to turn around. "I have a wedding to prepare for. Later, Berry."

Days after my meltdown next to Sam, I found myself staring at my phone, willing a message to magically type and send itself to Quinn. In typical Rachel Berry fashion, with a million ways of starting my conversation with the blonde girl, I had to choose an apology—a useless one at it, knowing that Quinn never really took to liking Sam romantically—and immediately regretted them as soon as it was "delivered and seen."

I know, Rachel. It's not an issue for me at all. Don't apologize, you deserve to be happy.

The reply was quick and seemed too cerebral, at least how I imagined she would say this. Well, Quinn has always been more phlegmatic, I convinced herself.

Thank you, Quinn. That means so much to me.

I bit my lip before erasing the message and changed it into: What if I'm still not happy?

Then don't string him along. You and I both know he is a good person and doesn't deserve that kind of treatment.

I'm not happy, Quinn.

Quinn Fabray's face—well, photo that I sneakily took at our last reunion—suddenly flashed at my phone screen. Tucked away at the corner of Lima Bean, I thanked my lucky stars no one seemed to have noticed my squeak and a toppled cup of water. I was obviously not expecting a phone call. It took three rings before I mustered the courage to actually pick up and hear the buttery voice of the blonde girl that had unknowingly been hijacking my everyday thoughts.

Is it because of Finn?

I laughed despite the question, because it's Quinn and she always went straight for the jugular. "Hello to you, too, Quinn."

But she had no time for niceties, I sensed right away—her silence said everything. And so I responded to match the Yale student's sobriety. "No…it's not because—I mean I still think about him, but not…the frequency has been lessened without me realizing it. I don't—I'm just…not happy."

Does Sam know?

"No…we don't-it's still very early."

You've known Sam for years, Rach. You ought to be over the getting to know you stage.

There was a hint of playfulness in Quinn's voice that made me more at ease. "I've known him as your boyfriend…and Mercedes's boyfriend. That's barely knowing him."

Still, he's obviously not some random hook up.

"Are you really alright with it?"

I've never…you know how I felt about Sam, Rach. Whatever romantic feelings I had for him was barely there when we dated. I'm more than sure there isn't anything anymore. If anything, I was just…surprised at the news because to be honest, I didn't see that coming.

"But you're really—"

Rachel.

There was a laugh that expressed both fondness and exasperation. A laugh that I often heard from Quinn since we have graduated and had spent so many nights calling the blonde—for comfort, for affirmation. For approval.

My endless whining and litany of insecurities have always been oddly placated by that. Rachel. Quinn uttering my name the way no one ever had.

"Okay, okay," I hummed in temporary satisfaction. "So…you being weird a few days back was nothing?"

I'm always being weird when not full-on crazy.

"I could swear that you were a bit…cold and distant to me when Santana called you."

I was a bit apprehensive as to why Santana would call…on speaker phone, with you. I didn't know what that was all about. I wasn't—it was a bit disconcerting. That's all.

"We've done that several times back in New York."

Not with Santana screaming at my almost bleeding ears a few minutes before that.

"You thought I would convince you to sacrifice your academic responsibilities for her wedding."

It certainly crossed my mind…and I'm not—it's not a very nice déjà vu.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

Please stop apologizing for something that isn't your fault. We've been through this so many times.

Whatever it is that I was supposed to say was forgotten when I heard a muffled voice—I couldn't figure out of it was male or female—greeting Quinn. Then I heard nothing, and I imagined Quinn covering the phone's speaker with her hand for a few seconds before the ambient sound— of wherever she was—came back.

I'm sorry about that.

"Classmate?"

Yeah, something like that.

"Are you being deliberately vague, Quinn Fabray?" I teased.

I don't know why I can be such a masochist, but I am at times. It hurt to have even asked. More so, when I was rewarded with an answer.

Maybe.

"Maybe she's…dating?" I asked Santana a week after my conversation with Quinn.

"I would know," she answered distractedly while crossing out a few names in a list. "So the answer is no, she's not dating anyone."

"So why would she be so painfully ambiguous about it?"

"Why are you so damn intrusive about it?" Santana grumbled. "Help me fix the guest list, will ya?"

"Why isn't Brittany doing this with you?"

"She's given her temporary list already, but," Santana's expression softened. "You know Brits would end up inviting…Lord Tubbington's friends. And her Fondue for Two fans. I really don't want pervy red necks showing up at our wedding."

"Her viewership is certainly…wide," I noted with caution while perusing the list. "Quinn's still here."

"Well, yeah."

"She's not going."

"So?"

"Nothing, I guess," I sighed.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing."

"…one-word replies from a woman, let alone from you, is never really nothing."

"I've just been lacking sleep lately."

"Because of great sex or—"

"No—I mean, it was alright, but to be very forthright about it…we've not been intimate after the first time." The truth is I cringed at the thought of sleeping with Sam again.

"So lack of sex, then."

I rolled my eyes before running a line across the name "Buffy and Cordelia" which earned an appreciative nod from Santana. "I'm rather amazed that even at this point, you still manage to reduce problems and solutions to sex."

"Because that's the easiest problem to solve. Everything else is too…shitty complicated. I mean, have you heard Quinn talk about her thoughts? It's exhausting to be brooding all the time."

"Quinn doesn't brood," I said defensively. Too defensively.

"That's because when you call Quinn, you talk about yourself, and she probably—typically—will croon in response to mollify your epic self-doubting moments."

"That's not—"

"Oh, please. Not like I haven't lived with you and heard your conversations with her. And I know Quinn more than—"

"I know her. I get it," I snapped. It was honestly unintended, but it was too late to take it back. I could've apologized but that wouldn't have stopped Santana from exploiting the crack that just showed. She pushed it because mentioning Quinn was unnecessary. I should've known but I took the bait anyway. I looked at her in surrender, waiting for the first round of battering rams and catapults. She was about to break the walls I built after my first dream of Quinn, and it felt oddly liberating.

"From a scale of 1 to Black Swan, how wanky were your dreams of her?"

I gave a watery chuckle. Of course Santana would focus on that after an hour of babbling and some attempts at processing my discombobulated thoughts. She was unusually patient, considering she's made it pretty clear in the past that she only has a five minute attention span for practically anything about me. "That's not important," I said, feigning a level of apathy before gulping the remaining contents in my glass. Auntie Tana poured another.

"It is. I mean, I get how everyone would practically have wet dreams about Q once in their lives. Even Mercedes admitted to that," Santana said with a disturbed frown. "That's Quinn. She saunters around everyone coolly and I think that's part of her charm. Everyone is attracted to the unreachable."

"But?"

"Five times in two weeks, Berry? That's really beyond normal. Not to mention smack right in the middle of your romance with Sam—who happens to be Q's twin brother from another life. You're more fucked up than I had thought."

I cried for several reasons. She was right to say it was beyond normal and I hated to think of the real implications on my own identity and what it would mean when I have finally reconciled things with myself. That I have been a bitch to Sam, for allowing myself to indulge in invented erotic memories of Quinn while I am with him.

That there was no bite or vileness when she practically called me a screw-up, meant it was a genuine description.

"You know, I had a photo of Quinn hanging on my wall," I said after semi-composing myself. "I never really—I didn't really had—I just thought she looked awesome."

"What photo?"

"Rocky Horror," I giggled. "She just looked pretty in anything. Even during her…skank days."

Santana made a disgusted face. I can't blame her. That one was acquired taste.

"Now, everything I've done—everything she's done—I can't help but psychoanalyze," I sighed in surrender.

"Don't take a trip down memory lane and misinterpret things," she warned.

"Why did she give me prom?" I ignored her warning. Of course I did. "Or, or…do what I asked her to do—at the risk of getting rejected by Finn—well, she did—just to placate my own insecurities?"

"Berry, I just said—"

"She was hell bent on sending me out. She was so adamant to stop my wedding," I shut my eyes tightly and balled up my hands. I was getting agitated but I was hyperaware of—and ultimately brushed aside— Santana's heavy sighing. "She asked me—oh god."

"Berry, I mean it." I vaguely heard Santana say. I shushed her then paced around like a mad man, muttering to myself.

"Santana," I mocked whispered. "I sang that song to Finn."

She nodded sagely. I should've taken it as a sign; Quinn had been confiding details—intimate details—of my interactions with her. But I wouldn't be Rachel Berry if I was adept at figuring things out right away.

"She cried." I sat down after recalling, breathing heavily as I was about to reach a breakthrough. "I thought at that time she—she never really wanted Finn, did she?"

Santana tilted her head away from me before taking a huge gulp from her own glass. "I'm not quite sure what you're—"

"It hurt her. The thought of me getting married to someone else hurt her."

"Rachel."

I clutched my chest. I could physically feel my heart shattering. "Oh my god, Santana," I exclaimed, finding the courage to look at her for answers.

And she did grace me with one, in the most torturous way possible.

Santana held me like it I meant something to her—like she actually cared for my well-being. I braced myself for the next set of waves that I knew would drown me.

"It was always about you."

The next couple of years were ebbs and flows. A pendulum swing of emotions, fleeting from genuine happiness to sudden melancholy; of double weddings, my second wind at Broadway, a new apartment, and that empty chair from every single gathering. I refused to let anyone fill the void.

I said goodbye to Sam with a heartfelt apology that he never quite understood why. I left for New York once more. I waited at Grand Central for God knows what. I spent hours there during my lull periods, watching lovers meet or part ways, people waiting to be found and silent camaraderie with people who waited for no one as well. It was the only place that made me feel not too alone. It relaxed me, it aggravated me, and it made me think of Quinn and her ever evolving wardrobe, lugging around a carry-over, running to meet me in the middle.

In those couple of years, I did reconcile with my sexuality. I had been certain of my feelings since that talk with Santana, but remained unresolved about pouring my heart and soul to the love of my life. Every now and then, Mrs. Lopez-Pierce would drop hints about Quinn's whereabouts though I admittedly tried to shut them out.

I've seen her last during her graduation at Yale, when she hugged me tightly and thanked me for being her inspiration. I wanted to kiss her, make Quinn Fabray mine though I knew the moment I spotted her in a sea of Ivy Leaguers that I couldn't. In a group, a brunette subtly brushed her hand with Quinn's, and the smile she gave the stranger was the warmest I've seen.

I couldn't—wouldn't—compete with that.

I stopped texting her and ignored her calls. The years have softened Santana, but that never stopped her from growling at me and calling me the most inane person Middle Earth has produced. The repetitive reference to hobbits somewhat gave me an odd sense of joy. It was an unbroken connection with Quinn.

Five years. Five years since Santana and Brittany's wedding. In the middle of winter, I decided it's time for me to let go of Quinn and to find some semblance of life.

"I'm ready to date again," I declared. I was having a celebratory dinner with Brittany, Santana, Blaine and Kurt, after my new show had been extended.

I was met with total silence and a few blank stares. Blaine cleared his throat and lifted his wine glass tentatively. "I say…cheers to that," he muttered.

Kurt gave his husband a reproachful look but gave in anyway. "Blaine's right. We need to toast to that." With a forced grin and a poke to Santana's side, my best friend took the lead.

Brittany gave me a squeeze in response and smiled encouragingly. I glanced at Santana, uncertain of her pensive expression.

"I know someone," she finally said with a smirk.

"Oh?" Kurt piped up with a curious look. "Do tell. Maybe Rachel here will be interested."

"Please," scoffed my Latina friend. "By the time I'm done describing her, Berry would be masturbating at her resume."

"Sanny," Brittany giggled knowingly. "Don't make her drool too much."

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. "Please, I'm no longer easily impressed."

"Oh?" Santana laughed. "Okay then. She has a master's degree in Comparative Literature at Columbia," she smirked while the rest responded with dramatic oohs. I raised my eyebrow as a challenge.

"Works at HarperCollins."

"Ohhh, how intellectual…and stable," Kurt swooned in approval.

"And loves music."

"I'm sold," I said, finally giving up my façade of indifference. "What's her name?"

"So you can be stalkerish and search her on social media? Please, Berry. Where's the fun in that?"

"There's no harm in doing background investigations," I objected with a pout. "At the very least, what if she's cheating?"

"I can assure you she's very, very, single. I won't throw you in the lion's den. Trust me."

I questioned my sanity as to why I continue to trust Santana. I also questioned my muscle-eye coordination when the post was right in front of me yet I still walked towards it anyway. I suppose I should have just admitted that seeing Quinn—waiting for her blind date—brought so much tears in my eyes that really deterred me from seeing anything in front of me. I whispered an apology to Quinn, even though she was a few steps away from me, as I turned around and ran away.

I tried slapping Santana but there was Brittany in front of me. For a brief moment, I reveled at the scene. Santana was actually cowering behind her wife, looking equally guilty. I refused to be placated by Kurt's explanation that they had my best interest at heart. I released a primal scream that quieted the whole apartment—and perhaps the whole block. They were all in this cruel joke. Did Quinn know?

Did she?

I vaguely remembered Blaine inhaling loudly then nodding before I made the most epic walk out and a mental note not to speak with traitors for approximately one week. I knew I couldn't stand being without my friends beyond seven days, but they didn't have to know that.

It was Christmas Eve when I finally faced the inevitable.

To be factual, Quinn forced me to.

Taking the final performance before the holiday break, I stood in the middle, unsure if my mind had been toying with me. There sat Quinn—well, stood while clapping—looking as ethereal as ever. She threw a hesitant smile after realizing she was caught, then quickly moved towards the exit.

I thought that was it. A reprieve from the person that represented my cowardice and failure. But Quinn is, well, Quinn. She knew when to back down and she knew when to push me. She waited for almost a decade, and she's had enough. I recognized immediately that fire in her hazel eyes the second I stepped out of the cast exit.

She stood still in the unusually biting cold with a purpose. Like a game of chicken, we measured each other up and figuring out who will blink first. It was a stand-off until the crowd dispersed and the only people left were her and I. She probably realized the idiocy of the situation because she let out a breathy laugh and shook her head. Every step she took seemed done in slow motion, the clucking of her boots amplified in my ears.

"Hi," she muttered shyly. "I wanted to—I waited because—just to tell you how great you were up there."

"T-thank you." God, I hated how I stuttered. I've heard that line a thousand times from a thousand different individuals. And yet at that moment, I've been reduced to a quivering puddle of emotions. "It's…I'm glad you enjoyed it."

Her eyes bore holes in my soul. "Rachel, maybe we could—"

"Quinn, don't," I pleaded. I prayed for earth to open up and swallow me whole. I wanted to condemn myself to hell because I couldn't comprehend why Quinn had approached me, and I had the gall to reject her.

"Okay, okay," she mumbled with head hanging low. "I'm sorry that—I won't bother you—no." She turned around and glared at me. "You don't get to go on with your life this time without explaining to me why the hell you dropped off my radar."

"Quinn."

"Don't. Quinn. Me. Rachel! Don't look at me with those apologetic doe eyes of yours because I want to know!"

There was nothing I could offer. No answer was good enough to justify the pain I have caused her.

"I saw you happy, Quinn. At your graduation—I—she—"

"She?!"

"Whoever that girl was, who made you smile! You never smiled like that to anyone." To me, I wanted to say.

She pinched her temples in frustration. "I don't even have an iota of an idea about what you're saying, Rachel."

"Brunette, as tall as you, kept brushing her hand against yours," I said with so much vile that my belated jealousy became too obvious.

"Oh my god," she growled upon remembering. "I was smiling like a goofball because I was about to graduate from Yale, goddamnit!"

"That girl—"

"I dated her, yes. But when did that ever stop anyone among us from making a move?! God, I half-expected you," she looked up and sobbed, "When Santana told me that you finally cracked the puzzle, I thought you would—"

She shook her head and smiled. The saddest smile I've ever seen. "You know, being stood up by your blind date is the most pathetic feeling in the world."

"I don't have—there's nothing I can do to take back the pain I've caused you."

"There are a million ways for you to do that! I hope you realize at some point how absurd this situation is, and that the only thing standing between us is your inability to see that we deserve each other, for better or for worse. You're still so frustrating!"

It's Christmas day and it's raining. I cursed, groaned and whined while walking along Williamsburg, Brooklyn to meet my girlfriend. It's an on-going battle in trying to convince her to move to Manhattan. I know I'm losing the fight. How could I possibly win it when all my irritation disappear the moment I am welcomed with a warm embrace. That warm embrace that tells me I am where I'm supposed to be.

It's been a year and a day since that fateful confrontation with Quinn. She walked away and never looked back.

But I sought her the very next day and the days after. I thought it was rather cruel for Santana to make me search three boroughs before giving up the pertinent information I so needed.

I was to meet her at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden—the Japanese Hill-and Pond Garden to be exact—Quinn texted. And I was marvelously late.

She sat there, the wind wildly moving in all directions. But she just sat there, unperturbed and celestial. With eyes closed, a serene smile eventually grew. Quinn said, the softest of whispers, "I was beginning to think you stood me up again."

Ignoring the obvious dig, I sat down next to her. "That, after you left…I saw a montage."

"A montage."

I nodded sagely. "A montage of everything we went through. I saw Finn—all that was good and bad of him—I cried a little—I cried because I felt so guilty realizing he had to…leave in order for me to find you. I cried because I had to hurt Sam in order to understand how much you meant to me. I cried a lot because I've hurt you all this time and I just couldn't face you anymore. I was such a mess, Quinn. From my own career failures, to my parents' divorce—I felt so inadequate. I couldn't—I wasn't capable of keeping someone. I didn't want you to be the next person I couldn't keep."

She frowned and crinkled her nose. "You…were scared that you couldn't keep me so you…left me behind?"

"I—yes?"

"You make no sense."

"It did, back then," I smiled as soon as I saw her break into a smile as well. "I was selfish and was in love you. It's one thing for someone like Brody to just go on his merry way, it's another thing if you¸ Quinn Fabray, finally decide I was not what you thought you wanted."

"Rachel—"

"So, I thought we could, you know, pretend to be friends. Until I saw you with that hussy."

"Rachel—"

"I just wanted you to have the life you deserved, and not be bogged down with my insecurities. I mean look at you, with a great career and a—"

"Rachel!"

There it was, that old familiar tone of exasperation and amusement.

I burrowed my face against Quinn's chest while she watched the Christmas special. In between the crackling of fire and the sound of rain against her window, I felt safe, and it was more than enough. I glanced upwards and stared with fondness at the huge framed photo of the old glee club. Then upon closing my eyes, I saw Finn's lopsided smile and Quinn behind him throwing dagger looks my way.

We have gone a long way. I got sidetracked, I admit now with ease. My life has been certainly filled with a lot of detours and off-tangents.

"Are you alright, Rach? Where did you go?"

"Nowhere," I smiled before reaching out for a kiss. "I'm where I'm supposed to be."

"Are you?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"Mhm," I nodded then held her tightly as possible. "I'm home."