Kissing Quinn Fabray

Chapter 4

Rachel's dad opens the door for me, and I enter the Berry house for the third time in my life. The first time was last year when Rachel threw a party for the glee club. I was still battling my feelings for her, fresh off Sam dropping me for Santana. The second time was last night after Cheerios practice. After kissing her in the lounge; after wondering for hours if I'd overstepped my boundaries, dreading the look on her face when she saw me again. Dreading the words, "You're a really sweet girl, Quinn, but..."

Both times I was on enemy ground, expecting an ambush at any moment. Both times, I was defeated before I even got here. But this time... This time, Rachel is expecting me. She wants me here; she's waiting for me as much as I'm waiting for her. This time, I belong here. So, I finally let myself relax and take it in.

The foyer is lined with photographs, nearly floor to ceiling. All sizes, mostly black and whites; a few in color. All of them candids. All of them startlingly clear, intimate.

"Who's the photographer?" I ask Rachel's dad as he closes the door behind me.

His sheepish smile gives him away, but he shrugs and says "guilty" anyway.

"They're beautiful." I feel like I'm telling him something he already knows; like, if I'd said, 'the sun is very hot.'

"Rachel will be right down, Quinn," he tells me. He has the kindest eyes. Brown and soft, like Rachel's. "She hasn't stopped talking about you all afternoon. We already love you." And then, "I won't even tell her that you stood on the front porch for ten minutes before you rang the doorbell."

I suddenly feel like I've just eaten a box of chalk. Fantastic. I try to swallow it down and defend myself. "I rang the doorbell." It's a feeble attempt, at best.

He's halfway down the hallway, laughing, before he throws the word "barely" over his shoulder.

I feel like I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. He's not like most adults in my world. I actually kind of like him.

He disappears into the kitchen, and I find myself alone, surrounded by these black and white memories. Rachel's memories, frozen in time.

To distract myself from the nervousness fluttering around inside my stomach, I look at them. There are so many. A Rachel Berry timeline, framed and quilted together on the wall.

I start at the beginning.

The tiniest Rachel Berry. Weeks old, perhaps. She's not much bigger than Beth was when I held her those first few minutes of her life. Eyes closed, sleeping. The photograph is so vivid, I can almost see her tiny chest rising and falling with breath.

Several more baby pictures, all of them as riveting as the first. Then, a rosy-cheeked toddler Rachel in a blue hooded windbreaker (one of the only color photographs on the wall), scooping up an armful of brown leaves. She's giggling, her tiny head thrown back, eyes squinted against the sun, leaves tumbling from her arms.

First day of school. Little white baby teeth in a perfect row except for one gaping hole on the top right. My Fair Lady lunchbox dangling at her side. Sweater vest, plaid skirt, Mary Janes. So excited to be going to school for the first time!

The most adorable little girl I've ever seen (what is she here, seven? eight?) holding up a giant bloated toad, her hair a gleaming black in the sunlight. Rachel. This one, like the others, is unbelievably clear; I feel like seven-year-old Rachel is standing right in front of me. I can almost feel the heat shining down on her. It makes me shiver in the Berry's shadowy foyer.

A few years older, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Another, sitting on the lap of the other Mr. Berry. Each photograph startlingly clear. All of them happy. This is Rachel's world? No wonder she's so unsinkable at school. It's such a far cry from the dynamic in my own family; I'm fascinated.