A/N: And here we go, with chapter eleven! This one was a bit difficult to churn out. Personal, real life troubles have been keeping me a little low, but the kind words of my reviewers and supporters on tumblr really helped me get this one written. And for that, I thank you all.

As always, reviews are loved and adored. I'm really interested to hear what you guys think about where I'm taking this story - there's going to be two really fun chapters coming up, then a wind-down chapter, and then the ending! I'm starting to see the end of this story, nearly a year after posting it, and I have to say, it's been a wild and fun ride so far, and I'm so glad you guys are here sharing it with me.

Disclaimer: None is mine.

Chapter Eleven: Conversation in a Coffee Shop

Kurt was having a difficult time understanding how he had managed to find himself in his current situation.

He could remember the basics. There was anger on his end; lots of pointing fingers and accusing words, an unpleasant slur or two, and a fair amount of that abominable indignant sashaying he never managed to keep a grip on when he was feeling particularly riled up.

But then crying had factored in somehow – not from him, shockingly enough – and Kurt's ire had swiftly turned to confusion. Confusion then melted into bewilderment, which next slid into startling comprehension before landing, albeit grudgingly, on compassion.

Awkward compassion, because it turns out Kurt is as much a clueless idiot about girls crying as the next guy, and (judging by the large wet blotch and make-up smears now residing on his blazer shoulder) his fluttery, hesitant, pathetic-attempts-at-soothing there, there motions could use some work.

In his defense, though, it was not every day a girl confessed her deepest, darkest secrets to him. Well, Rachel Berry did. But her confessions generally involved lusting after Howard Keel circa Seven Brides, and agonizing over whether or not her sweater horses strayed too far over the Seabiscuit line into My Little Pony territory. Which, hilarious future blackmail material aside, was hardly a book deal in the making.

So there had been yelling, then crying, and at first Kurt's sensibilities had put up a valiant fight. It was Casey Dewitt, after all, the girl Kurt had been harboring alarmingly imaginative and colorful ill-will toward for some time; one shocking revelation was hardly enough to send that sort of dedicated loathing for the hills. She had been the bane of his existence for too long. She was unpleasant and shrill, especially while crying, and her complete lack of appreciation for all things vintage and fabulous was translating to burying her tear-stained face into Kurt's scarf, and I did not suffer four days of intense accessory allowance negotiations with Wes and back-alley dealings with Thad for my favorite Burberry accent to be ruined, and Kurt was fully prepared to crack down on such brazen blasphemy … but then Casey pulled out the big guns. It started with a meek, "I'm sorry," coupled with a hiccuped, "I've ru-ruined your scarf," and a panicked inner monologue Resist resist resist resist which crumbled in the face of, "And you l-looked so n-nice in it!", and before Kurt knew it, he was snared.

He had done what he swore he would not do, and fell victim to the wiles of one Miss Casey Dewitt.

It wasn't his fault, he reasoned with himself as he tugged Casey through the chattering crowd of Warblers and Kingston patrons. These things happened to the best of them. Kurt was only human, after all, and Casey was practically a school-boy savant – the hormone guru of the boarding school world. None of them were safe. Clearly she had figured out that the quickest way through Kurt Hummel's defenses was by using his accessories.

Plus, the girl had been crying. Kurt may come off aloof and haughty on his best days, but she had been body-wracking sobbing. On his scarf. After admitting something huge. Casey may very well be the most insufferable woman in his acquaintance, but Kurt wasn't completely heartless.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Kurt could recall Casey crying inconsolably against his shoulder, remembered feeling her hitched breathing when he asked whether any one else knew, the vice grip when he offered to talk about it, the halting nod when asked whether maybe a coffee would help to start off (because, as has been said, Kurt is clueless when it comes to crying girls, and coffee is sort of his go-to with situations of a dramatic nature). After that there had been jumbled questions of concern from the Warblers, a speedily thought-up "Mascara wand mishap, boys, just getting our lovely Casey here to the ladies' room to help wash her eye out" from Kurt, and suspicious brow-raising from Blaine because, thanks to Mercedes and her insistence on having Blaine join at least one of their girls' night-ins, he knew perfectly well Kurt simply did not do mascara mishaps.

That was going to be a fun conversation.

And now Kurt found himself here, sitting in the drivers' seat of Casey's fiercely impressive Mercedes-Benz, the space between his ears steeped heavily in shocked disbelief, half his concentration on the GPS screen showing him the quickest routes to the finest caffeinated beverages the city of Findlay had to offer (so far Tim Horton's, a Stop-Go gas station, and a wittingly named Cuppa Joe's, which principle alone dictated Kurt avoid), and the other half focused closely on the shaking shoulders of the huddled form to his right.

Needless to say, this was not what Kurt had in mind as the outcome of calling Casey Dewitt a soulless tramp.

Kurt's phone began ringing in his pocket, the mellow tones of Blaine's 'Walk Tall' ring-tone (Kurt had been feeling especially ironic that day) breaking through the thick silence in the car.

Kurt glanced over at Casey, who was gazing out the passenger side window, stoically silent. His fingers tapped an anxious beat into the steering wheel. Kurt's first instinct was to answer the call – he was supposed to be driving back to Dalton with Blaine, after all, and his boyfriend was no doubt wondering what was getting him and Casey so chummy all of a sudden – but one glance at the tear streaks glistening along Casey's cheek as she stared listlessly into the blurring landscape had him hesitating. There was a very real possibility that Casey had not let slip to anyone else what she had just confessed to Kurt, and while Kurt knew that Blaine would be a far better bearer of such sensitive information (he actually enjoyed Casey's company, for one) it was far from Kurt's place to tell another's secrets.

He could respect Casey's decisions on who to tell and when to say it – not that he would ever understand why the girl chose him, of all people – but he couldn't deny that keeping the information from Blaine was going to prove an interesting endeavor. From the beginning of their friendship, Blaine had been able to read Kurt like a book, could tell his mood just by the tone of a text message, and Kurt had never been known to keep his emotions to himself. Like Casey was the boy whisperer of Dalton, Blaine was Kurt's own private Cesar Millan, and would be able to tell something was up the moment Kurt answered the phone, if he didn't suspect already. So if Casey didn't want anyone else to become privy to her confession, how exactly was Kurt going to explain all of this away?

As Kurt silently debated over whether or not to answer, from his pocket the ringing continued until, wordlessly, Casey reached over to the dashboard and twisted a couple of the dials. A moment later, her car's Bluetooth kicked in, politely informing Kurt he had an incoming call.

I'm taking that as a hint, Kurt thought to himself, slanting another look Casey's way as he pressed the green "Accept Call" button on the steering console and Blaine's disembodied voice began streaming in through the speakers.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice asked hesitantly. "You there?"

"Hey, Blaine," Kurt called out louder than necessary, though he did not know that yet. His Navigator didn't have Bluetooth, Kurt had never used the device before, and where the hell did they keep the mic, anyway?

"... Why are you shouting at me?"

Apparently closer than Kurt anticipated. Kurt shot an apologetic glance in Casey's direction, who seemed for all intents and purposes ignoring the conversation going on in her car. "I'm on Casey's Bluetooth."

"Really?" There was a pause on the other end of the line, then: "Does that mean you're driving her car?"

"Yes." Another pause. Kurt could practically feel Blaine's suspicion oozing in through the speakers so, in an attempt to keep the atmosphere light, Kurt joked, "Remind me to buy one of these babies next time I have ninety grand lying around."

The quip did not have much of an affect; Blaine, it seemed, was entirely too focused on the details of the situation. "Why are you driving her car?" And then, more suspiciously, "She's still conscious, right?"

"Of course she's still conscious!" Kurt scoffed, offended Blaine would think him capable of physically harming her ... and yes, okay, Kurt may have made the occasional off-hand comment about bludgeoning Casey with her own woefully unfashionable handbag, or tearing her hair out one horrifically styled clump at a time, but that didn't mean he would ever act on the desire!

Even outdated accessories didn't deserve such treatment.

"Because don't think I believe for a second that excuse you made to get her away from the Warblers," Blaine's voice continued undeterred. "You've got the dexterity of a surgeon, especially when it comes to eye make-up application."

The boy made a valid point. "It is one of my many gifts," Kurt conceded, then sighed when Blaine remained pointedly silent. He addressed his passenger, "Casey, say hello to Blaine to prove to him you're still breathing."

Casey stared mutely out the window.

Oh sure, now she shuts up. "She's retouching her rouge," Kurt snatched wildly at the fib, floundering for an excuse that would keep a girl as verbose as Casey normally was from talking. "Very precise work; eating up all her concentration." He forced a laugh. "You know how it is, one wrong swipe and it's good-bye demure debutante, hello eighties glam-rock guitarist."

"Uh-huh." Blaine sounded skeptical, and for the first time ever Kurt found himself cursing the fact he had managed to find a boyfriend who actually did read Vogue for the articles. "What's going on, Kurt?"

Kurt drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, thinking quickly. "Would you believe a passionate love affair?"

… Yeah, all right, so Kurt failed spectacularly at coming up with excuses under pressure, but really, Blaine – stop laughing any time now.

After a long moment of uncontrolled snorts and snuffling on the other end of the line (during which Kurt impatiently counted to ten in his head. Twice.), Blaine managed to rein in his mirth. "I knew there was a reason to keep you around." His voice sounded warm and fond, and Kurt's mouth was pulling into an answering grin despite himself. "So ignoring the fact you are blatantly keeping me in the dark about something –" Oh Blaine, you have no idea … "– are you driving back to Dalton, or what?"

Kurt hesitated. "We're … grabbing a coffee, actually."

"A coffee." There was a definite note of incredulity in Blaine's voice now. "You are willfully driving Casey – the same girl you threaten to 'put the fear of Joan Rivers into' on a regular basis – to get a coffee." Another pause, before Blaine felt the need to clarify, "In public."

Kurt bristled at the circle on the ceiling he thought might be the mic. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, that depends. Is this coffee located near a heavily-wooded area?"

"Blaine!" Kurt's eyes snapped over to Casey, who made no visible acknowledgment to having heard what Blaine said. "Tact! Besides, this is Eastern Ohio; of course there aren't any heavily-wooded areas."

"Shallow ditches, then?"

The laugh Kurt emitted at this was high-pitched, and could be described as nothing short of mortified. Had Blaine lost his mind? Had Kurt done something to offend him? Had his boyfriend forgotten basic forms of etiquette and that Casey was, quite literally, right there? "Don't be ridiculous, Blaine."

"Landfill?" Kurt's mouth dropped open in horror. "Abandoned coal mine? No, wait, you wore your BOSS loafers today …"

Kurt shot a strained smile at Casey's profile, who had yet to acknowledge him. "It must be all the CSI re-runs going to his head," he explained apologetically. "Sometimes his imagination gets the best of him. I told Wes and David not to let him near the TiVo, but do they listen?"

Kurt forced another uncomfortable laugh, then dove forward and began swiping at the button-riddled console, desperate to switch the speakerphone off. He really did not have the patience nor the wherewithal to deal with a wildly sobbing female twice in one afternoon, and though Casey appeared too lost in her own thoughts to listen to anything Blaine said, Kurt did not feel like leaving anything to chance. Blaine's gentlemanly dapper side had taken a lunch break at the worst possible moment, and Kurt was keen to get his idiotically oblivious boyfriend off the phone before any real damage was done.

Of course, the fact the entirety of the dashboard seemed to be nothing but buttons did absolute zilch to abate Kurt's sense of urgency. Cheesus, he had seen sound boards with less keys than this. The Batmobile would be an easier contraption to figure out. Honestly, what car needed climate-control, an in-vehicle hotspot … audio downloading? … Hel-lo, massage feature …

Blaine prattled on in the background as a thoroughly distracted Kurt became better acquainted with his seat. "You're not expecting me to come up with a believable alibi, are you? Because if so I'm going to need at least four hours in Nordstrom with your credit card …"

Kurt gave up his search with a wearied sigh, slumping back against his chair and suppressing the urge to rub his temples. "You do know what a Bluetooth is, right?"

"All right, I'm sorry." Blaine didn't sound sorry at all, but he did add a slightly more sincere, "I'm sure you're perfectly safe in his company, Casey," which was promptly ignored by the girl in question.

Kurt rolled his eyes at Blaine's antics, resigned to whatever damage his teasing may yield, and let out a relieved breath when he spotted a sign for an approaching coffee house. He quickly signaled right and pulled into the parking lot. "Well Blaine, as charmingly mortifying as this conversation has been, I've managed to find a coffee shop that is neither Canadian nor run by soulless green aprons, so if there's nothing else …"

"There was a reason I called, actually," Blaine's voice interrupted, sounding far too amused for Kurt's liking. "I was wondering what you were planning to do about dinner."

"Dinner? What are you talking abou – oh." He had forgotten it was Friday. Which meant dinner. Dinner with his family, including a father who did not take kindly to tardiness. Kurt resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel; instead he slid his gaze over to the near catatonic girl next to him. He worried his lower lip between his teeth, then sighed. There was nothing for it. "Guess I'm going to be a little late. Maybe you could explain to my dad –"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a moment." And just like that, teasing-Blaine was gone, the ever preferred panicky version swiftly replacing him. "You want me to go to your house? Alone?"

"No, with a color guard," Kurt retorted. "Yes, alone."

There was the distinct sound of spluttering on the other end. "But I don't – I'm not … can I do that?"

Kurt shared a commiserating glance with Casey's ear. Men. "You were invited, weren't you? It's simple Blaine," Kurt continued, after he was met with more inarticulate spluttering, "you go ahead of me, explain to Dad and Carole that I'm indulging in a post-performance mocha with Casey, I'll drop her off at Dalton, pick up my car, and meet you there." He smacked his lips exasperatedly when he heard Blaine gulp audibly. "Don't be so dramatic. Spending ten minutes alone in my dad's presence isn't going to kill you. He likes you now, remember?"

"He tolerated me because I was injured, and less of a threat to your virtue."

Kurt snorted. "He likes you because he's finally realized you're about as threatening to my virtue as a newborn goat."

"… Hey –!"

"A very suave, charismatic newborn goat." Kurt grinned when he heard Blaine's huff. Killing the ignition to the car (with a button, how James Bond is that?) Kurt feigned crackling noises into the mic. "We're going through a tunnel, Blaine, I think I'm losing the signal!"

"There are no tunnels in Findlay."

God, the boy was obsessed with details today. "Impressive geography skills, honey, see you at home!"

"Kurt, don't even try –"

With a press of the red "End Call" button (though, if Kurt were being completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if it turned out to be the "Seat Ejector" button instead), Blaine's voice cut out. Kurt smiled to himself, rather pleased with his own ingenuity, before letting out a surprised screech as his seat began sliding itself backwards.

"It's to make it easier to get out of the car," Casey explained in a dull tone; they were the first words she spoke since leaving the retirement home. They came out scratchy and raw. "It'll move back once the door shuts." She kept her focus resolutely out the window.

Kurt was clutching at his chest in an effort to prevent his heart from expelling itself all over the chrome. "That's … thoughtful of it." He shook his head and laughed weakly. "It doesn't transform into an Autobot on the weekends, too, does it?"

Casey shrugged woodenly. "It parallel parks itself."

"Seriously?" At Casey's jerky nod, Kurt let out an impressed whistle, eying the dash enviously. My life is so deprived.

Outside the car, the sky was turning darker, the soft light filtering through the windshield glimmering cheekily as it tinted to cooler shades, the sun beginning to sink below the clouds. Purples and oranges were edging out pinks and yellows when Casey finally moved; shifting in her chair, she sat up, wiped a hand across her damp eyes and glanced across the center console in time to watch Kurt pet a loving hand over the instrument panel.

"I wouldn't blame you, you know," she intoned heavily, and Kurt startled at the unexpected sound. He quickly snatched his hand back, looking up and blinking when he saw the intensity with which Casey was watching him.

"Um, come again?"

"If you wanted to bury me in a ditch," she clarified, her voice thick, harsher than Kurt had ever heard it due to all the crying from before. She waved a vague hand in the air. "If what Blaine was saying was true, I wouldn't blame you." She dipped her chin and trained swimming eyes on her knees. "I don't even know why you're tal-talking to me."

So she had been listening the whole time, then. Well. How awkward. "Casey …" When a quavering bottom lip and two fresh tear spots on the knees of her jeans were the only responses he received, Kurt sighed and clicked open his door. "Come on. Coffee first, talking after."

A short wait in line, two caramel mochas, and a painfully sincere "You two lovebirds enjoy!" later, Kurt and Casey were sitting down at a table across from each other, both of them gripping their drinks between their hands, one hiding her sniffles in her sleeve, the other trying very hard not to scold her for it.

"So …" Kurt rolled his fingers over the edge of his cup, taking comfort in the heat wafting up through the vented lid. This was better; this he could do. Coffee was good. Coffee was soothing. Coffee fixed everything. Coffee didn't cry uncontrollably against his lapels.

He took a sip, was pleasantly surprised by the drink only being half as terrible as he predicted, and cleared his throat, trying again. "So." He tilted his head to the side, drummed his fingers along the wood of the table, searching for a way to ease into the conversation that was tip-toeing obnoxiously around their table without sounding like an after-school television special. He never thought he would see the day, but he could really have used one of Miss Pillsbury's pun-riddled pamphlets right about now. His eyes took in the décor of the shop, all the dark woods and green leather accents, and inspiration struck. You can never go wrong with interior design.

He smiled benignly and indicated around them with his cup. "Cozy spot, hmm? Very Ivy League bookshop chic. I approve."

Kurt's plan was unsuccessful. Instead of the instantaneous bonding over button-tufted chaises and Roman blinds he had hoped would miraculously occur, Casey hummed noncommittally instead and brought her cup up to her mouth, her eyes downcast, her posture stooped over the table. Momentarily deterred, Kurt took advantage of the silence between them to study his coffee-going counterpart: pale cheeks, colorless expression, drawn mouth and tight shoulders, sitting as though gravity was giving its all to pull her through the floor – even the ever-present plaid skirt and poorly-tailored uniform blazer were missing, replaced instead by a pair of dark skinny jeans and a snug-fitted long-sleeved tee.

The girl sitting across from Kurt now looked the complete anti-thesis to the Casey Dewitt he had learned to abhor so passionately. And Kurt, who had spent countless hours villainizing everything about Casey from her flirting to her faux pas, didn't know quite what to do with that information.

Well, he certainly didn't want to sit here in uncomfortable silence for the next two hours, at least that he was sure about. Taking a calming pull from his coffee, he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to speak – about what, he had no clue, he was planning on just winging it and hoping he wouldn't have to stoop to discussing the weather – when finally, Casey spoke.

"Is it obvious?" she blurted, her words high and forced, her eyes wide as she addressed her question to the grains in the wooden table.

Kurt stared at her, privately of the opinion things would proceed much more smoothly if anything the girl in front of him said was obvious. "I don't think I'm following you."

He watched her fingers tremble and clench together around her coffee cup. "Me," she choked out, pulling her gaze from the table and up to Kurt, looking lost and broken and so unnervingly familiar something in Kurt's chest twinged painfully at the sight. "Am I that obvious?"

Kurt shook his head slowly, not understanding.

"When you said those things to me. About h-how I treated the Warblers a-and – and Blaine, you seemed so … you said you could see – that I'm …" She gestured to herself with one of her hands, her expression pained, her posture so tense even Kurt's shoulders were beginning to ache. Her eyes darted around the nearly empty shop, and she sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. She looked back at Kurt, hunched down even lower in her chair. "How could you tell?"

This, Kurt thought dazedly, was exactly why he dated boys. His conversations with Blaine almost never required a translator.

"Because I've been trying," Casey continued before Kurt could figure out a response, her voice turning more shrill as the knuckles of the hand clutching her coffee cup whitened. "I've been trying really, really hard to not make it obvious, a-and I don't – don't know wh-what I'll do if everybody at school figures out that I … that I'm –" She pulled in another shuddering breath, pressed a hand against her eyes. "They can't. If they s-say anything … if my father finds – I just … they can't."

When it all finally clicked, Kurt felt like an idiot. Of course she would think – the way he had said it, the way he accused her – of course.

"Casey," he said firmly; he reached up and pried the hand away from her eyes, settling it on the table and squeezing her fingers briefly before letting go. "No one else knows, all right? Trust me," he added, when Casey began shaking her head back and forth silently, her expression nothing short of panicked, "you're very – ah, convincing to the contrary."

"But," Casey sniffed tremulously, and Kurt bit his tongue as she wiped at her nose with her sleeve again, "but then – how did you know …?"

Kurt's fingers, which had been toying absently with the rim of his cup, fumbled and nearly spilled his coffee. "Call it a hunch," he said evasively, pulling his hands into the safety of his lap and hoping she wouldn't delve for more information. He had a feeling that the truth – I had no idea you're a total closet case, I just thought you were a heartless man-eater looking to add my boyfriend as another notch on her bedpost – would do nothing to help keep Casey's looming mental breakdown at bay.

And besides, this way made him seem far less psycho-jealous boyfriend, and much more fashion-savvy Sherlock. Without the violin. And fabulous hat.

"I can't believe this is happening." The head shaking had started again, Casey's movements jerky and stuttered as she clenched and unclenched her fingers from her coffee cup, her eyes darting to the sides, the ceiling, the table. "None of this should be … I tried, I tried so hard not to … but they – they didn't c-care, they never listened, and now I'm st-stuck here, and I'm all al-alone and no one –" She cut off on a sob, her eyes swimming, the cup in her hand shaking so hard caramel-colored liquid was sloshing over the top and dripping onto her fingers.

"Hey." Kurt hastened to pull the cup away from the hysterical girl before she burned herself, trying to keep his movements slow and deliberate, firm in his belief that one wrong move on his part would have Casey losing her head like a startled horse. She truly looked as though she was one loud sound away from high-tailing it out the coffee shop Roadrunner-style, and Kurt knew he was far from equipped to deal with a flight scenario. He'd worn the wrong shoes, for one thing.

Other patrons in the store were beginning to stare as Casey's sobs became more labored. Kurt tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Casey, who hesitated before accepting it, her wet eyes wide and unsure. He smiled reassuringly. "Why don't you start from the beginning?"

Casey sniffled and dabbed delicately under her eyes. When she was done, she fiddled with the fabric, her gaze dropped to her fingers. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I'm planning to use every second of this conversation against you at some point," Kurt dead-panned, lilting the edges of his mouth into a soft smile when Casey hiccuped and blinked her surprise. "Let's just say I've been where you are, and would have really appreciated having someone to let it all out to." He nudged her foot under the table. "You ready to talk?"

Casey pulled in a shaky breath. Exhaled slowly. "I don't really know where to start," she admitted, and Kurt watched as she folded her hands on the tabletop and began twisting the handkerchief between them anxiously.

"Well, explaining why you've been chasing after the Dalton boys like it's going out of style would be a good place to start," Kurt suggested dryly. He promptly regretted it when Casey's lip began trembling again. "Sorry. That was … harsh."

But Casey was shaking her head. "No, no, you're right. It's stupid." She sniffed, blew her nose into the handkerchief, shook her head again. "I've been stupid. And unfair. And really, really horrible. God," she laughed harshly, her eyes tipping up toward the ceiling, "I'm a real piece of work, aren't I? It's a wonder you haven't pushed me out a window yet."

Oh hell, she hasn't found my blog, has she? "I'm a staunch believer in keeping violence out of schools. Hugs, not drugs, and all that." When Casey lowered her eyes back to him, Kurt cleared his throat and busied himself with sipping his drink. Please don't ask me for a hug.

"You can say it, you know." Kurt tilted his chin up questioningly. "That you hate me. I can take it." Casey leaned back in her chair, and spread her arms open, as though inviting Kurt's caustic wit to have at it. She smiled at him, a shadowed, self-deprecating twitch of her lips. "My opinion of myself isn't exactly at a high point right now, there's not much you can say that could make it worse."

What was this, Make Kurt Feel as Awkward as Possible Day? Were Blaine and Casey in cahoots, or something?

"I don't hate you." The denial was feeble and blatantly insincere to Kurt's own ears, and he squirmed slightly in his seat when Casey continued to stare. "Hate is such a … strong word," he hedged. Just how obvious would it be if he averted his eyes and began tugging uncomfortably on his collar? Really obvious? Well, too late now …

"Blaine's right: you're a terrible liar."

That ruffled some feathers. "He said that, hmm?" Kurt folded his arms, unimpressed. "And just what else does Mr. only suffers from seasonal allergies whenever The Notebook is on have to say about – you know what, never mind." He forced himself to stop, and took in a deep, calming breath. Keep on track, he reminded himself. Tangents only ever led to trouble; particularly for the emotionally fragile and/or late-for-family-night-dinner crowd. "We're here to talk about your newly-developed habit of coming out to people who yell profanities at you, not my boyfriend and the wondrously obtuse things he says."

For a long moment, Casey stared. Fiddled with the handkerchief in her hands. Opened her mouth, choked on nothing, closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Visibly worked up her nerve, tried again. "My father."

An eyebrow inched up towards Kurt's hairline. "Your father made you come out?"

"No. Y-yes. I mean …" She shook her head, frustrated. Kurt could see she was struggling; her lips were forming the syllables, she was sucking in gulps of air to help, but the words weren't coming out, as though they were lodging themselves somewhere between her brain and her mouth. "He's the … the reason, I guess," she finally managed to force out. "For all – this."

She spoke with her hands, an encompassing gesticulation that indicated the entirety of the coffee shop, which Kurt darted his gaze around, feeling as confused as ever.

"He's the reason for … Findlay?"

It was an irrefutable fact that Kurt would never understand the appeal of women. As friends they were terrific, but constantly dealing with their hysterics, moments of inarticulate rambling and – oh hell no, she did not just give me a look – was downright stressful. It pained him to remember those dark days when he legitimately believed he could survive pretending to date Brittany.

"I meant all of this." She made the sweeping gesture again. "Me, being in Ohio. Going to Dalton. Chase – chasing all the Warblers. It's all thanks to him." She dropped her eyes back to the table, her voice pitching low and dripping in poorly concealed bitterness. "Daddy and his complete disgust at having a dyke for a daughter."

Kurt flinched. Whether at that word or the cold and anguished fury hidden behind it, he wasn't entirely sure. Whatever it was, it had fallen leaden into his stomach and was making camp there.

He tried to play it casual as he took another sip of his now tepid drink. "Coming-out horror story, huh?"

Casey actually snorted at this, gifting Kurt with a look that made it perfectly clear just how inane she found his question to be. "Are you kidding me? You think I actually came out to my family?" She scoffed and rolled her eyes skyward. "Think what you want about me, Kurt, but I'm not stupid. Well, no," she corrected herself, eyes still on the ceiling, "that's not true. Acknowledging my 'deviant urges' and writing them all down for my nosy sister to find was pretty damn stupid of me, now I think about it."

"Wait, you were outed by your sister?" It was a day of many firsts for Kurt. Sharing (grudging) compassion for Casey, then pity, and now anger on her behalf – had he woken up this morning on the wrong side of a time warp?

"Charlotte and I have always had a strained relationship," Casey explained, her expression twisting unpleasantly. "She was the older, prettier sister; I was the smarter, precocious baby of the family. All through our childhood we were pitted against each other." She affected a mocking, simpering tone. "Look how beautiful your older sister is, Casey, don't you wish you could be just like her? and my, my, Lottie, darling little Casey's grades are putting yours to shame. It was rough growing up like that, being constantly compared to her, feeling as though I had to compete for my parents' affection.

"It got worse as we got older. Lottie didn't like how I constantly stole our parents' attention away from her; I couldn't stand how two-faced and unpleasant she was to me. So when I mentioned in my toast at our brother's engagement party that Lottie's husband looked as though his family tree branched off in one direction …" Casey trailed off and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, she won that round."

There was a small part of Kurt – a very tiny, quiet, slightly ashamed part of him – that was mentally scribbling down that family tree zinger for future use.

The rest of him was properly horrified.

"She outed you at your brother's engagement party?"

Casey nodded, her fingers now working furiously at a frayed end of Kurt's handkerchief. "All our family and closest friends were there. People who knew me, had been there my whole life: neighbors, my old teachers – even the mayor." She sighed, and Kurt saw something painful flicker within her gaze. "Everybody who was anybody was there celebrating Carter's impending nuptials, and she told them. Right in the middle of the party. In front of God and everybody she whipped out my diary and handed it to my mother, bookmarked and all."

"And they saw everything?" Unbeknownst to him, Kurt had leaned forward across the table, coffee and fellow patrons completely forgotten, wholly absorbed in Casey's story. "You wrote in there about being …?"

"I don't even remember what I wrote," Casey admitted quietly. "The ramblings of a confused and scared thirteen-year-old girl, I guess. It's not like it was x-rated material, or anything. I was too … too ashamed of being different to ever do anything about what I was feeling." A tremor worked its way through Casey's shoulders. She sighed, and scrubbed a hand through her hair. "It was mostly questions, endless pleas, forbidden fantasies about Emmy Layton's smile or Miss Becker's ridiculously toned legs – everything I was too afraid to admit aloud, to myself or to others, I wrote in there. All my inner-most, private thoughts, and my parents read them."

She choked out a laugh then, the sound of it almost painful, and rubbed her hands over her eyes. "You should've seen their faces, Kurt," she spoke into her palms. "You'd think they read my gruesome confession to murdering the gardener, the way they were looking at me. Like I was some deranged, dangerous stranger who'd gate-crashed their party. Like they didn't even know me."

She lowered her hands, and her eyes flashed. "And it's not like I actually acted on any of those urges, either," she hissed across the table, and Kurt was surprised by how furious she suddenly sounded. "I was a good girl, Kurt. A good, Southern, Christian girl." A hand fumbled at the neckline of her shirt and pulled out a delicate silver necklace, held out the simple little cross dangling from the chain so Kurt could see. "I followed all the rules, was the perfect daughter. I attended church and said my prayers and kept my outfits modest. I did my hair the way my mama wanted me to, batted my eyes just like Lottie did whenever a cute boy walked by. I did well in school, was adored by the patrons of the town. I said all the right things at the dinner parties and fundraisers and family gatherings, parroted back whatever views my father held, no matter how bigoted or vitriolic or – or hurtful they were … I was a good girl." Voice cracking, she closed her eyes, slumping back in her chair.

"I was a good daughter," she muttered miserably at the table. "A good daughter who laughed at her father's homophobic jokes and made a few of her own –" her face twisted with repulsion at the shameful memory – "because she knew what was expected of her, what would happen if Hoyt and Evelyn Dewitt ever found out they had a gay hiding in the family, and was more than prepared to keep those … those thoughts to herself and marry the first blue-blooded bozo her daddy approved."

Kurt stared dumbly as Casey fell silent. It was official: he was never complaining about sitting through football games with his dad again. Sometimes he took for granted that, flannel and bad jokes aside, his dad was pretty damn awesome, and had done his best to ensure Kurt felt supported and loved during every step of his own coming-out story. In fact Burt had done such a good job at being his dad that it was still a shock to Kurt, to know that not every other gay kid was as lucky as he was, didn't have parents who would buy them Maria bonnets and take them to the Nutcracker and push a football player up against a wall to defend them. It was sobering to remember the rest of the world didn't work the way Burt Hummel did, and that he, Kurt, could have had it so much worse.

Kurt had never been so anxious to get home for Friday night family dinner before in his life.

But Casey was still sitting across from him, looking wrecked and miserable, as though her entire world had been pulled out from under her feet like a cheap rug, and there were parts of her past behavior that had yet to be explained. "So, your parents found out, and I'm guessing they weren't exactly thrilled?"

Casey shook her head, her teeth biting furiously into her lower lip. "I've never seen my mother cry like that before," she admitted, her own tears spilling over her cheeks. "She sat there, begging me to deny it, to say Lottie was just pulling one of her mean pranks, that there was no way a child of hers would wind up so diseased."

That word, and the way Casey spat it out, made Kurt's skin crawl. "And … your dad?"

Another snort. "My father didn't say anything. Wouldn't even look at me. He sent me to my room for the rest of the night, and by morning my bags were packed, and I was on a plane to Columbus."

"Just like that? He didn't even let you explain?"

"Kurt, my father didn't care about an explanation," Casey said, a bitter laugh escaping when she saw Kurt's bemused expression. "The damage had already been done. It didn't matter if I confirmed, denied, or pleaded temporary insanity to him. Charlotte outed me, Kurt. In front of everybody. Daddy is a proud, stoic, God fearing man. I brought immorality, and sin, and filth into his house. I slandered the family name, disrespected him under his own roof, and what's worse I embarrassed him in front of the entire town." She held out her hands in an almost helpless gesture. "There's no explaining myself out of that one."

Kurt could not fathom why he was the only one sitting at the table who was spluttering with indignant rage. Could not grasp how Casey sounded so resigned, so accepting of what she had told him; of what had happened to her, how she'd been treated by her own family. "So he sent you to Dalton, just like that."

"Well, not just like that." A corner of Casey's mouth twitched upward. "Turns out it's not that easy convincing Dalton's board of directors to allow a girl into their school."

"What d'you mean?"

"You know that addition they're adding onto the library?" At Kurt's hesitant nod, Casey continued, "Consider that my non-refundable tuition deposit."

Holy fathers of a puppy-sweatered Berry … Kurt knew Casey came from money, the weirdly polite car he was just groped by was proof of that, but he'd had no idea – "Your dad added an entire wing onto our school's library, just to get you to come here?" His eyes nearly bugged out his head at Casey's affirmation. "Why?"

Another teary eye roll. "Well, isn't it obvious? What better way to scare the girl-loving out of your daughter than to dump her in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, completely isolated from her friends and family, and surrounded by hordes of sexually-repressed prep school boys?"

"Is it working?" Kurt asked, his thoughts straying over the past few weeks, of Casey flirting and coquetting her way through the Warblers, of making Kurt see red whenever she interacted with Blaine.

Casey studied Kurt for a long moment, her teeth almost chewing a hole through her lip, before she dropped her gaze to her hands. "No," she whispered to her fingers, her voice small, hopeless. She shook her head and closed her eyes tightly. "No, it's not working."

"But then, why?" Kurt was confused, and frustrated, and beginning to grow impatient. There was still so much about Casey he didn't understand, couldn't understand. "I get it why you wouldn't say anything to anyone –" He thought about being in her position, of their roles being reversed, of him stuck in a school like Crawford, and he shuddered dramatically – "I really do, but why all the flirting? Why all the coy looks, soft touches, and that homicidal thought-inducing giggle?"

Casey's brow furrowed. "You really hate my laugh that much?"

"Me and small dogs cower whenever it draws near," Kurt retorted, "and you're evading my question."

Another twisted look, this one aimed at her hands, and then a sullen mumble, forced out through trembling lips: "Because."

"Because?" Oh yes, Kurt was definitely starting to feel irritated now. He crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. "That's the best you've got? Because? Casey, you've been toying with the Warblers for weeks –"

"I know –"

"– acting cute, stringing them all along –"

"I know that, Kurt, God …"

"– building them up, making them think they've got a chance, then breaking their feeble little hearts one by one –"

"Jesus, Hummel, don't hold back or anything –"

"– wheedling your way between friends, crowding yourself into relationships, and the best you've got is 'because' …"

"I don't have a choice, all right?" Casey finally snapped, pulling up her head and glaring Kurt into silence. "I don't. I wish I did, I wish with everything I had that I could just get through my last few years of high school without having to deal with any of this – this absolute mess my life's become, but I can't. I can't." She tangled the fingers of both hands into her hair, knotting them together and tugging hard. "I can't anger him any more, Kurt. I'm nothing without my family's money; I have nothing. If he finds out – if the dean calls, or-or someone else sees, and he finds out … I'm done. My life is done."

Large, desperate tears were splashing onto the table between her elbows as Casey began to really lose it, and Kurt found himself stuck to his chair, immobilized by confusion and alarm.

"I've got two years of high school left," Casey whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut, the hands buried in her hair shaking her head back and forth weakly. "If my father doesn't think Dalton's working, if … if I don't convince him that I – that I'm t-trying to … that I'm fixing myself, then he'll disown me." Her voice wavered and hitched, terrified, on the words. "He'll pull me out of Dalton, send me overseas, maybe even th-throw me into the streets, or-or into one of those camps and I can't –" She pulled in a heaving breath through her nose, opened her eyes and gazed imploring up at Kurt, begging for him to understand. "Two years. I just have to make it two years, but Dalton's my last chance. If I don't convince someone to be my boyfriend by the time my parents come to pick me up for my brother's wedding …" She trailed off, left her statement hanging, but Kurt didn't need her to finish it.

Finally, Kurt was beginning to understand. He didn't know what she had been through, couldn't wrap his mind around how she had lived sixteen years with such a man for a father, and all that certainly did not mean he agreed with her actions regarding his friends, but still … he understood that she felt trapped, that she was scared and alone and terrified for her future, and for him, that was enough.

"So, all those dates." Casey lifted her eyes up to Kurt's, let out a stuttering breath. "You tried to lie to them, but …"

"They were all such nice guys, I just – I couldn't do it," Casey finished pathetically. "I thought I could pretend, just until the wedding, just long enough for my parents to think I was g-getting better or whatever, but –" She sniffled, brushed the handkerchief across her cheeks and under her nose. "I couldn't lie to them. I was too afraid to admit what I was, but I couldn't lead any of them on, so I'd … I'd break it off after the first date, and try to find someone who was less …"

"Endearing?" Kurt guessed; he smiled pityingly when she nodded. "Honey, the Warblers are all a bunch of singing teddy bears. You would've had better luck with the lacrosse team."

This, surprising enough, managed to squeak a laugh out of Casey. "Yeah," she admitted with a tremulous smile, "I figured that one out after Warbler number six."

"Jeff?"

"No, Richard."

"Ah." Kurt nodded in understanding. Richard was like the straight version of Blaine; no girl could manipulate that guy without selling their soul first.

The two of them lapsed into silence, the soft murmuring and clinking of the espresso machine behind them the only sounds to pass over their table. Kurt was studying Casey closely, watching as she swirled her fingers absent-mindedly over the rim of her barely-touched drink, her eyes focused on nothing, lost as she was in her own thoughts.

"Can I ask you a question?" Kurt found himself asking, his eyes following the movements of her hand, which twitched barely noticeably before withdrawing away from the cup and back under the table. Catching sight of her wordless nod, he said, "Why did you cling so much to Blaine?"

"Honestly?" Casey shrugged her shoulders lightly. "He's nice. He's friendly and unassuming, and is one of the only guys in that entire school I feel comfortable around." She eyed Kurt with something akin to amusement. Or at least, it would have been amusement, if it weren't for the tears still glistening along her eyelashes. "On that first day, when he talked my ear off about a certain gorgeous boyfriend who was perfect, and wonderful, and would just 'absolutely love me', I thought the two of you could be my, I don't know, my gay allies or something." She shook her head at her own silliness, and let out a brusque laugh. "Of course, thirty seconds into meeting me, you decided I was undesirable number one, and after that, well – your indignant faces and creative epithets for me became something of my entertainment during the day. I couldn't resist egging you on a bit."

This declaration left Kurt properly stunned. All that time, all those winks and innuendos and infuriating little comments, and all Casey had been trying to do was rile him up?

Inexplicably, Kurt's mouth pulled up into an impressed, almost proud, smile. That unfashionable little genius is a female me.

They were back in Casey's car, music playing low and an almost companionable silence stretched out between them as they drove down the I-75, when Kurt asked his next question.

"So, when exactly is your brother's wedding?"

"Next weekend," Casey said, arms crossed over her stomach and eyes closed. She looked drawn out and exhausted but also, strangely enough, calm. "Why?"

Kurt hummed. "Just wondering." He eyed the signs overhead. "You still have time to find someone, you know, if you applied your feminine appeal and really worked on your accessorizing abilities–"

But Casey was shaking her head in the negative. "I'm giving up on that plan," she sighed, sounding tired and defeated. "I can't drag some unwitting guy into my mess of a life, especially not one of the Warblers. No, I'll think of something else, fake an illness or something." She laughed derisively. "I'm getting pretty good at faking things, as you're aware."

Kurt hesitated for a breath, thought To hell with it, and dove right in. "Well, there is one thing we could do."

"Oh, really?" was her skeptical reply. "And what would that be?"

Kurt pondered for a second, debated internally for less than that, before signaling to the right, and taking the split-off that would by-pass Westerville and instead lead them straight into Lima.

Casey cracked open an eye, took in their surroundings, and sat up straight in her seat. "Where're we going?"

Kurt ignored her question, countering it with one of his own. "So, your parents' prerequisites for this hypothetical boyfriend of yours," he began, in a would-be casual tone that was belied by the small smirk that was beginning to creep across his features, "they wouldn't include a height limit, would they?"

A/N2: Whoo. Angsty, huh? I promise the next chapter is much more light-hearted and fun, and there'll be a lot more cutesy Kurt and Blaine in that one, too. Seriously. My teeth are aching just thinking about the scenes I've already written.

If you can, take some time out and review! Or stop by my tumblr (stoofinlunacy . tumblr . com) and say hello!

Till next time!