These strange steps

6. Six

Days pass in a blur.

It's not even the pills. It's just that literally every fucking day is the same. She wakes up, she eats (when she feels like it), she works out (when she feels like it), she watches a daytime television show with half an eye until it's time to run through a sound check (and why on earth those are going on daily, as opposed to just after her nights off, she doesn't know, but it's not worth asking), and then either does a show or falls asleep in front of the television.

Then, on Sunday, Puck knocks on her front door, and she drags herself off the couch, afghan wrapped around her shoulders, to go and tiredly open up for him.

Puck stares at her with a questioning, cautious look on his face, and then says, "She's in town."

"What? That's—wow, what a coincidence," Rachel says, in possibly the worst bout of acting she's produced since that disastrous musical they'd attempted to put on in sophomore year.

Back when she'd honestly believed that her career was more important than any personal relationship she could craft. It's been a long time, since then, and that's probably a large part of why her hand shakes when she holds it out to him, for the slip of paper that he's probably got in his pocket with Quinn's address on it.

Puck raises his eyebrows at the gesture, or maybe the unconvincing—well, everything. "Dude—"

"Puck, I swear; I will tell you all about this as soon as there's something to tell, okay?" she says, a little urgently, because she needs him to let this go.

When he gives her another look, she lowers her eyes. "Please don't push me on this right now. It's going to be hard enough to talk to her without—"

He sighs. "Okay. You're right, it's none of my business what you are or aren't doing with her, but just—be careful, yeah? Quinn is—"

"Neither of us have any idea what Quinn is or isn't anymore," Rachel says, brusquely.

His lips twist into a half-smile as he digs the address out of his pocket and hands it over to her. "I hope she's ready for you."

"Yeah. So do I," Rachel says, before closing the door again and leaning against it hard.

It's just four lines on a torn bit of envelope, but they practically feel like the only thing between her and a nervous breakdown right now.

...

It's late morning on Monday; Kurt thinks she's off with her personal trainer somewhere, jogging along a desert trail—and it's just such a relief that Kurt and nature don't mix, because no person with any sense of direction would have bought that line from her given that there isn't any such thing as a 'desert trail' anywhere near her house—and Puck is fielding all other questions for her, under the guise that she's taking a personal day to rest her voice.

It doesn't really matter whether anyone buys into that, or if it pisses anyone off. Her team can all yell at her for the rest of her life for bailing on yet another rehearsal and fucking up this show when it's supposed to function as her bridge to Hollywood.

She doesn't think it will change how she feels, or what her priorities are right now. Hell, she can barely bring herself to care, about how any of this is affecting her career.

It's been ages since she's even felt like there was something more to her life than her career. That's what gets her out of the rented house and into her rented Lexus. That's what has her getting out of her car, when she thinks she's in the right place.

Quinn's apartment block is on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood that Wikipedia describes as being up and coming and kind of bohemian hip.