Somewhere along the way she had decided that 30 was her number.

It had been 25 when she was younger, when she was full of dreams and 25 still seemed a long ways away.

It's funny, she often thinks. Everyday she tells the students she mentors for college applications that they don't have to be sure of everything right now; that they can try things out and make decisions that won't destroy their lives decades from now.

It's all a part of being young; being a teenager.

She's sure that there were people in her life that reassured her of the same thing – it's one of the many meaningless things that adults tell young people to protect them from the craziness of the real world.

Even though she's now complicit in it, and makes more than a fair living off of the necessary lie, she just wishes that someone had clued her in earlier that it was all a farce.

Right now, as an adult, it's obvious to her that she threw her life away when she let Nationals – Nationals – slide, simply because she got a kiss from the guy that had blown her off countless times before.

Finn Hudson. Also known as her husband, Finn Hudson.

Now that she's 30 and still lives in Lima, married, and working as a high school teacher and a college prep specialist on the side, it's hard not to pinpoint the disappointing moments in her life. Her amazing grades and SAT scores had earned her a full scholarship to be with Finn at Ohio State, after which they were supposed to move to New York together. In the intervening years, she had said yes to his proposal, yes to the house across the street from Mr. Schue, yes to him having to travel for work at least twice a month. Yet, though he had promised, he had never been ready to say yes to the only thing that she had ever wanted from him.

And, yes, now that she's 30, she does blame herself.

She means to get through the holidays and the hectic weeks before the January 1st deadlines that most of her seniors have to meet, but Finn comes home on her birthday with a mini Cleveland Browns jersey and a book of baby names for a child that he's super excited about, but who doesn't exist and never will, and she realizes that she just can't do it anymore.

Later, she's not sure whether it was the ugly brown color of the jersey or the fact that she had just spent hours preparing her own birthday dinner that had been the straw that broke the camel's back. She just knows that he had answered her pronouncement that she was going to New York with an idiotic question – "For how long?"

It had made leaving that much easier.

Everyone is shocked. Her dads had long believed that she had given up on a future that they had invested in since she was 8 months old, and her network of friends, most of them from McKinley, tell her that they thought she had gotten over this 'high school' side of herself.

Honestly, she takes it as a compliment. That is the part of herself that she's desperately trying to rediscover.

People snicker when it turns out that she moves to Chicago and not New York, but she's determined to be realistic and not idealistic about finally making her dreams come true.

That cold, dark winter, she relies on her savings to rent a small studio in Lincoln Park, and hires a vocal coach and a dance instructor to whip her back into shape. She gets a job with Kaplan to teach SAT classes a few nights a week to pay the bills, but makes sure to leave plenty of time to do her 'research' – looking into agents and potential career directions in New York.

In late February, she discovers that Jesse St. James has spent years dominating the West End stage, and is returning home to show Broadway the same respect.

Initially, she scoffs at the idea that dances into her head, but as she's told herself about leaving her husband and starting foundation lessons again, she has nowhere to go but up.

He probably won't remember her anyway.

She addresses the letter to Jesse St. James in care of his New York management company, and includes the newest CD she recorded with her vocal coach and a certificate attesting to her progress in dance. She asks him to keep an eye out for opportunities for her, and hopes beyond hope that she doesn't sound too desperate.

She is desperate. She cannot fail at this, at her life, again.

Six weeks later, she ventures downtown to retrieve a package that the Fed Ex deliveryman conveniently attempted to deliver every time she was out of the house. When she finally does get it in her hands, she sees a return address in New York and rips open the heavy envelope before she has even signed for it, ignoring the attendant who is pointedly holding out the pen.

The look the woman at the counter gives her would normally embarrass her, but she's distracted by the fact that the package includes a detailed, highlighted script, and a request for her to report for an audition in New York.

Tomorrow.

There's no phone number, no identifiable signature, and she has no idea who sent it beyond the stamped G. Smith on both the letter and the envelope, but an hour later, she's packed and heading to the airport, a flight and hotel hastily booked on her phone; a five hour energy drink at the ready to make it through the script.

It only occurs to her mid-flight that this could all be a joke; that she should be more skeptical of something that seems too good to be true.

As instructed, she reports to a non-descript office building in Hell's Kitchen the next morning, and she half-expects Jesse to be waiting for her in a room alone. She can't help but have flashbacks to the egging, even though it's been almost fifteen years since and those feelings should have been long-buried.

Instead of Jesse, there are four people sitting at a table, a pianist, and a fake wood floor that has notable tap-dancing dents in it. It's exactly what she remembers auditions to be like – she sings, does a bit of light choreography, and is asked questions by the panel.

The premise of the show is startlingly new for Broadway – a combination of theater and show choir competition – which made it immediately obvious why Jesse would have thought it a good fit for her. It will be an unapologetic, challenging role as some of the show isn't scripted, and will rely on audience feedback and participation to determine the ending. She's going for the part of the 'I've had a hard knock life, but I'll make it because I'm naturally gifted and talented' lead girl, and it's so not her, it's thrilling and liberating. She can tell it's one of those shows that will create a stir, and instantly propel those associated with it to stardom.

In short, she would kill to land the role.

She talks about her experiences with glee club in high school, and wanting to get back to that feeling on stage where all that matters is hitting the note, getting it right. They ask about her performance and improv skills, tactfully alluding to the fact that there is a big gap in her performance resume between college and now, but she makes all of them laugh by telling them that her years as a high school teacher provided her with as much dramatic and improvisational training as she will ever need. It breaks the ice, they start to like her, and she can see that they are taking her dedication to her craft over the past few months seriously.

Her heart skips a beat when she's walking through Central Park a few hours later and recognizes the Manhattan area code on an incoming call. She couldn't be more surprised when it's a voice that she still recognizes from Ohio that starts speaking.

"Congratulations," Jesse says with businesslike enthusiasm, "You've got the part."

She starts crying, and though she has a million questions swirling in her head, it's easier to agree that she will meet him and the rest of the cast at a theater in the Village than to ask any of them.

When the cast is all together for a celebratory toast and a first reading of the script, she doesn't quite manage to hide her surprise when Jesse, flanked by the four people on her audition panel, introduces himself as the director of the production.

He's her boss. All of their boss, actually, and she takes note of the cool, professional attitude that he uses to address the group of eager actors, most of whom will be making their professional debuts.

She's just coming to the conclusion that he must be completely different from the pompous, conceited teenager she used to know, when he silently sidles up to her with two glasses of red wine and a smirk.

He hands her a glass, clinking his with hers without a proper toast. Instead, his words are teasing, dripping with the arrogance and conceit that she vividly remembers.

"You ready for this?"

I apologize for starting something new, but I had to write this or my brain would not rest. I think I'm having season one Rachel withdrawals.