Chapter Text
It had been a while since Quinn Fabray had stepped foot in New York City. Not since Mercedes had a gig she invited everyone to a few years ago. Quinn was only in town for the week for a literary conference at NYU. The travel requirement since her first novel dropped last year had been brutal. The bright lights, the endless energy, it was all so familiar, and yet so far removed from the polished professional she had become.
The second she stepped off the subway into the crisp night air she wondered if she should have reached out to one of her old high school friends. It’s not like she hadn’t thought about it, but she hadn’t exactly been great at maintaining communication with any of them, besides Mercedes, in recent years. Would it be awkward if she did? She chose to file that rabbit hole away for when she got to her hotel.
After settling into her hotel room, Quinn found herself fiddling with her phone debating if it would be worse to reach out now at the eleventh hour. That's when she saw it. A text from Santana Lopez.
Santana: You in town this weekend? Let’s get dinner. I promise not to make fun of your salad order. Much.
Quinn: You still have that same attitude, huh? Sure, dinner sounds good. When?
Santana: Meet me at 8 tomorrow. Don't be late. I'll be wearing something that says, “I'm a successful divorcee and also, yes, I still look hotter than you.”
Quinn chuckled, shaking her head as she typed her reply.
---
When Quinn entered the trendy little restaurant in SoHo, she spotted Santana almost immediately. She was sitting at a corner booth, wearing a sleek black dress that accentuated her curves in a way that made Quinn briefly question if she had been as aware of Santana's appeal back in the day as she had thought.
Her hair was shorter, waves framing her face; her leather jacket had been replaced by a dark blazer that made her look infuriatingly put together. When Santana saw her, she smiled, a slow, knowing grin.
“Well, well, well, if it isn't Quinn Fabray, the woman of the hour. You actually showed up. I figured you’d ghost me and claim ‘spiritual jet lag’ or something. I was worried I’d have to bitch you out for making me take time out of my busy schedule to treat you to a night out.”
Quinn rolled her eyes, sliding into the seat across from her. “First off, you texted me so don’t act like this is some charitable act of yours.”
“Oh, it totally was,” Santana said, smirking. “My good deed of the week. Catching up with my favorite repressed ex-cheerleader.”
Quinn laughed, surprising herself with how easily it came. “Hello to you too, Santana.”
---
They order a few appetizers for the table and a round of drinks, Gin and Tonic for Santana and wine for Quinn. The conversation flowed the way it always used to when they weren’t at each other’s throats. They traded stories about work, the insanity of adulthood, and, of course, their old classmates.
“So Rachel’s still in New York?” Quinn asked.
Santana leaned back, a devilish spark in her eyes. “Oh yeah. She’s doing Broadway again. I saw one of her promo posters and almost reported it for visual assault.”
Quinn bursts out laughing, the sound a little too loud. She hadn’t realized how much she missed Santana’s sharp humor. She misses the effortless way they once existed in the same orbit. “You’re horrible,” Quinn says, wiping at the corner of her mouth.
“No, I’m real,” Santana quips, that cocky grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Quinn can’t help but smile, though it’s fleeting. As the laughter fades, her gaze lingers on Santana, her mind wandering to places it hasn’t been in years. She tries to place the question in her mind before she lets it slip out. What made Santana reach out to her, after all this time? It’s not like they haven’t spoken at all, but their interactions had been... shallow. Texts here and there. A like on Instagram. Maybe even a Snapchat or two each year, but nothing that hinted at a deeper connection. So why now?
She takes a slow sip of her wine, trying to distract herself from the swirl of thoughts. “How’d you know I was in town?” Quinn asks, her voice casual but with an edge of vulnerability she immediately regrets.
Santana looks up from her drink, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if considering how best to answer. After a beat, she responds, “Mercedes mentioned that you were coming when I was in LA last week.
The real question is why I had to hear it from her instead of you…”
Quinn sighs. A weight settles on her chest, a familiar knot of guilt that she’s carried for years now. “Santana…”
“Nope,” Santana interrupts, her voice firm. “You don’t get to sigh your way out of this. You disappeared, Quinn.”
That stings. Quinn’s chest tightens as the words land. “That’s not fair,” Quinn responds, her tone defensive, but even she can hear the hesitation in her voice.
Santana shakes her head, the grin on her face turning sharp, pointed. “Oh, it’s extremely fair. Britt and I moved to New York, and somehow you moved to Witness Protection.”
Quinn flinches at the jibe, her stomach sinking. “I was busy,” she protests, her voice rising with a mix of frustration and defensiveness. “Grad school was intense, and then I was writing my book. And you were busy too.” She trails off, eyes flickering away, unable to meet Santana’s gaze.
Santana’s laugh cuts through the air, bitter and humorless. “Oh my God. You’re doing the thing.”
Quinn furrows her brow. “What thing?”
“The Quinn Fabray special,” Santana says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Where you smile politely and rewrite history, so you don’t have to admit you hurt someone.”
Quinn stiffens. She can feel the familiar heat of embarrassment creeping up her neck, but she refuses to back down. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Really?” Santana leans forward, her eyes locking onto Quinn’s, sharp and unyielding. “I finished law school, Quinn. I got married AND divorced, and you weren’t around for either.”
The words hit harder than Quinn expects. Her eyes flicker down, then back up to meet Santana’s, but the hurt is already there, too raw for her to hide.
It’s not a surprise. She’d known it would come up eventually, that the wedding would haunt her Santana was never one to hold punches, or slaps. She should have been there. She should have been there. She had promised.
“I know,” she whispers, the words barely audible, “I know. And I’ll always regret that. You and Britt were my best friends... it’s just…” She swallows, the lump in her throat too big to ignore now. “Things got weird after the breakup with Puck. And school was... really hectic. But I did try to reach out after the divorce.”
Santana crosses her arms over her chest, “Last time I checked, ‘reaching out’ doesn’t mean a birthday text and a LinkedIn like.”
“I liked two of your Instagram posts last month,” she says, more defensively than she meant to.
Santana scoffs, “One of them was a picture of my coffee. You don’t even drink coffee.”
Quinn opens her mouth to argue, but then she closes it. There’s no way to defend it. Not really. She wasn’t really reaching out. She wasn’t really there for Santana or Brittany. Not in the ways that mattered.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Quinn admits, her voice quieter now. She takes another sip of her wine, the glass trembling slightly in her hand. “I didn’t know how to fix it. Or if it could even be fixed.” She lowers her head, trying to hide the way her chest aches, but she can’t escape the need to say it. “If it’s any consolation,” she starts, “I missed you.”
Santana rolls her eyes, clearly not ready to let Quinn off the hook. “Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you get the next round and maybe I’ll consider forgiving you.” Santana leans forward, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips, “Now tell me more about what you’ve been up to. How does it feel being the new queen of suburban escape? Knowing that every white, Midwestern housewife looks to you to forget about their vanilla heterosexual lives and loveless marriages.”
Quinn chuckles, the sound sharp and teasing. “Did you even read my book?”
---
Hours later, they’re sitting on the balcony of Quinn’s hotel room, half a bottle of wine in as Quinn looks out at the city, the vast skyline of Manhattan stretching in front of her. The noise of the streets below is a distant hum, like an undercurrent to the quiet, personal bubble they've created. She could probably look at this view all night; this kind of solitude was becoming her thing. She used to dream of this, being in the center of everything, without the constant pressure of everyone watching. Now, it's more comfortable than she expected. Santana's presence next to her pulls her back to the moment.
Santana tips her head back and squints at Quinn. “Okay,” she says, dragging the word out. “I’ve been staring at you for like… ten minutes now. Still doesn’t make sense.”
Quinn raises an eyebrow, very composed for someone on her fourth glass of wine. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve lived a confusing life.”
“No, see, that’s the thing.” Santana pushes herself upright and points at Quinn with her cup. “You were supposed to be done by now. Married. Suburban. Two kids with aggressively gender-neutral names. A golden retriever named something like—”
“Bailey,” Quinn says automatically.
Santana’s eyes go wide. “SEE? This is what I’m talking about.”
Quinn laughs, a little softer than she means to. She leans her elbows on her thighs and looks out at the city instead of at Santana. “I did have a whole plan.”
“Bitch, you had a PowerPoint,” Santana says. “At sixteen.”
“Okay, rude, but yes.” Quinn shrugs. “I thought if I followed all the rules, everything would… click into place.”
Santana snorts. “And now look at you. Twenty-eight. Not married. Drinking wine out of hotel cups with a lesbian who refuses to leave New York.”
Quinn smiles at that. “I am visiting.”
“Mmhmm.” Santana takes a sip, eyes narrowing. “So explain it to me. How is Quinn Fabray former head cheerleader, patron saint of pastel cardigans NOT freaking out about this?”
Quinn considers it. The city hums below them, horns, laughter, something that sounds like music but might just be someone yelling creatively.
“I think,” she says slowly, “I spent so much time wanting the picture that I forgot to check if I actually wanted the life inside it.”
Santana blinks. Then, quieter, “Damn. That was… disturbingly healthy.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Quinn says. “I’m still a mess half the time.”
Santana grins, crooked and fond. “Yeah, but you’re like… a hot, self-aware mess. Growth.”
Quinn used to think being alone meant she failed at something. But if she hadn’t learned anything else through years of therapy and experience, she learned that it was more time and space to decide what she actually wanted.
Santana studies her for a long moment, expression unreadable in the neon glow. “You know,” she says, “sixteen-year-old you would be shook.”
“Oh, she’d hate me,” Quinn agrees with a chuckle.
“If it makes you feel better, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You could be married and divorced by the ripe old age of 28 too.” Santana states.
“Funny thing is I almost got engaged. Like… two years ago.”
Santana’s head snaps up. “I’m sorry—what?”
Quinn winces. “Please don’t yell.”
“You almost got engaged and you just… slipped that in like you were telling me you almost ordered dessert?” Santana deadpans.
“It didn’t happen,” Quinn says, defensive but smiling. “So technically it doesn’t count. His name was Jeremy and no, you wouldn’t hate him.”
“That’s suspicious,” Santana says, tone coated in doubt.
“He was…” Quinn exhales. “Perfect. Like, objectively. Sweet. Smart. Worked in nonprofit finance, which I didn’t even know was a thing. Volunteered on weekends without being smug about it.”
“Ugh. I already don’t trust him.” Santana shakes her head. “Okay, so what was the problem? Secret criminal? Emotional unavailability? Weird thing with his mom?”
“No,” Quinn says softly. “He was wonderful to me. He knew all my favorite takeout orders. He remembered stuff I said in passing. He loved me very… intentionally.”
Santana’s teasing expression fades just a bit. “And?”
“And when he talked about the future,” Quinn says, staring at her hands, “I felt… safe. But I didn’t feel…” She makes a vague, helpless gesture at her chest.
“Like you wanted to climb him like a tree?” Santana offers.
Quinn laughs, then sighs. “Like I wanted to choose him every day. Like my body and my heart were in the same place.”
Santana leans back on her palms. “So he proposed?”
“Not officially. But he showed me a ring. Asked if I was ready.” Quinn swallows. “And I just… couldn’t say yes.”
“Damn, that’s brutal. What did you tell him?” Santana asks.
As the conversation shifts to the expectations she once had for her life, Quinn feels a weight settle on her chest. It’s not regret. Not exactly. It’s just that feeling, the one she gets when she’s realizing that she hasn’t fully figured things out yet, even though she thought she would by now.
She says the words out loud, and the shift in her voice catches Santana’s attention. Does she know? Does she realize how much Quinn has changed?
“The truth,” Quinn says. “That he deserved someone who didn’t have to talk herself into loving him. It felt cruel,” Quinn admits. “But saying yes would’ve been worse.”
Santana lets out a low whistle then nudges Quinn with her shoulder, “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you Q Fab.”
“Well, an old frenemy once told me to stop letting boys define me.” Quinn says amused as she takes another sip of her wine.
Suddenly Santana slaps her on the arm and nearly makes her drop her cup over the railing. “WAIT IS HE THE MIKE CHANGE DOPPLEGANGER FROM YOUR SNAPCHAT STORIES?!”
“He did not look like Mike Chang!” Quinn quickly rebuttals.
“He totally did! Britt and I talked about it for days,” Santana says, laughing. “He was all tall, dark hair, very symmetrical. Same nice arms. Probably had a very soothing presence.”
“Huh,” Quinn hums to herself then she slowly grins, “I guess that makes sense… You know, I never told anyone, but I kind of had a crush on Mike freshman year.”
“No way!” Santana laughs. “I could see it. Something about those abs even used to get my lady loving loins tingling.”
“Ew,” Quinn shakes her head and grimaces. She could recall it like yesterday, joining McKinley her freshman year, fresh off a summer of shedding away everything that was Lucy. Quinn shrugged, cheeks pink. “He was… kind. And quiet. And he could dance.” She glanced sideways. “He noticed people without trying to own them.”
Santana took a long sip, eyes dancing. “Damn. Too bad he refused to date white women.”
Quinn groaned. “Santana.”
“I’m just saying,” Santana pressed, laughing, “he would’ve been way safer for you than the Gassy Golden Retriever Hudson or the Walking Red Flag that is Puckerman.”
Quinn flicked her with a balled-up napkin. “You’re horrible.”
“And correct,” Santana said, catching it. “I always am.”
Quinn had her feet tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her hotel cup sweating wine onto the concrete. Santana leaned back, city lights glittering below like they were in on the joke. They sat in companionable silence for a beat, the kind that only came after years of knowing exactly where the other one’s landmines were. Quinn rolled her cup between her palms, then lifted her chin, eyes sharp.
“Alright, Lopez. Your turn. First crush?”
Santana’s smile faltered. Just a hair. Enough that Quinn caught it.
“Oh no,” Quinn said softly. “Oh, this is good.”
Santana scoffed. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You already did by dodging,” Quinn replied. “First crush. High school. Oh let me guess, was it Rachel? It was Rachel wasn’t it?”
Quinn just kept staring at her entirely too giddy! “Ew hell no! That’s disgusting, Fabray.” Santana downed the rest of her wine and quickly snatched the bottle up to refill the Styrofoam cup. “Fuck it, real talk?”
Quinn enthusiastically nodded. Santana hesitated for only a moment and then rolled her eyes, “I think...I think you were actually my first crush.”
Quinn blinks as he smile slowly fades, “What?”
Santana smirks, eyes still staring at her cup. “Yep.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches like a held breath. “Me?” Quinn finally asks, “Wait...are you fucking with me?”
“Nope,” Santana looks up now, eyes dark and a crooked grin on her face like she knows she’s now made Quinn the awkward one. “Before Brittany, before I could even say it out loud. You were the first girl I looked at and thought, Oh, shit. My gay awakening if you will.”
Quinn’s cheeks go pink and she chuckles in that startled, awkward little sound Santana hasn’t heard in years. “Santana Lopez had a crush on me.”
“Oh please,” Santana says, rolling her eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t act so surprised. You knew you were hot. Everyone knew. I mean, I was me, but you were…” she gestured vaguely with her hand. “You had that whole pretty blonde hair, tragic eyes, perfect white girl thing going. It was annoying, honestly. And confusing. I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to be you or…”
“-be with me?” Quinn finished for her arching a brow. Quinn tilts her head, grin spreading. She was enjoying this way too much. “So you hated me because you liked me?”
Santana laughed, “Something like that. I just knew that wasn’t an option, so I shoved it down and made it a competition instead.”
Quinn feels her face warm after that truth bomb. She tries to play it cool, but inside, there’s a flutter she doesn’t know what to do with. The old Quinn would’ve rejected it, laughed it off, but now…now there’s this odd feeling of pride mixed with something else. She pulls herself together just in time to offer a half-smile, and she’s glad she did. This whole conversation is like watching a version of herself she used to know unravel, and it’s fascinating. She can’t tell if she’s terrified or... relieved. She sat back, absorbing that. “You had a crush on me.”
“I literally just said that.” Santana stared.
“No, I heard you,” Quinn said, a slow smile spreading across her lips again. “I’m just…processing. Santana Lopez had a crush on me.”
Santana groaned, “don’t you dare get all smug about it, Fabray.”
“I’m not smug,” Quinn smirks.
“You are so smug.”
Quinn sets her cup down, turning to face her fully. “Well,” she says slowly, “I’m flattered, I think.”
Santana snorts, “Don’t hurt yourself trying to sound humble, Q.”
“Oh, shut up.” Quinn rested her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming. “Okay, now I have to know. What exactly about me did it for you? Was it my radiant personality? My charm? The uniform?”
“Ha.” Santana’s smirk returns. “Try the legs. And the way you looked at me when you were about to say something mean. I swear, you weaponized that voice.”
Quinn gasps, mock offended, “What does that even mean?” Quinn stared out at the skyline, jaw tightening like it always did right before she decided to be honest. “Maybe you should’ve said something.”
“Yeah right. Back then I was too busy pretending to hate everyone, and I would not have been equipped to handle the inevitable gay panic spiral that would have sent you through.”
Quinn just laughed softly, “Fair.”
Santana rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved despite herself. “God. I was such a mess.”
“We all were,” Quinn said. She lifted her cup. “To first crushes. The ones who survived us.”
Santana clinked her cup against Quinn’s. “And to the ones who didn’t.”