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Finn Hudson isn’t dumb.
People think he is sometimes—probably because he says “dude” a lot and still doesn’t totally get geometry—but he’s not an idiot. He notices things. Especially now, now that school’s out and Rachel’s officially his girlfriend and they’re doing, like, actual couple stuff. Frozen yogurt runs. Sitting side-by-side watching the director’s commentary of Evita. He even eats her vegan cookie dough without gagging. That’s commitment. That’s boyfriend behavior.
So yeah. He notices things.
Like how she didn’t cry after Regionals.
Which is weird. Because she cries about everything. Slushies. Harsh lighting. The fact that Mercedes got a solo in the assembly that one time and she didn’t. But when they lost? When Vocal Adrenaline destroyed them onstage and Jesse just strolled away like he hadn’t ghosted her, hadn’t shattered her, hadn’t even been part of New Directions? She didn’t even blink. Just sat there in the choir room, statue-still, like some tragic girl in a black-and-white movie, staring at the whiteboard like it owed her something.
Finn tried. Said, “Hey, it’s okay. We still have next year.”
She just gave him this tiny, polite smile and said “yeah,” in a voice so soft it barely existed. Then she asked if he could drive her home.
Obviously, he said yes. He’s got his license now. (Three tries. Whatever. He got it.)
The truck is janky. He knows that. He says it up front every time he offers someone a ride: you might die, but at least you’ll die being cool as hell in my 1989 Ford.
The seatbelt on the passenger side sticks, and every time he drives Rachel, he has to kind of… lean over and jiggle it around until it latches. (Which he doesn’t hate, because, y’know—proximity,) and he mutters, “Sorry it’s not a Rolls-Royce. You know, like someone’s ex,” all casual-like, because humor? Right?
She doesn’t laugh.
She just sort of—freezes. Like a statue version of Rachel Berry, like he just insulted Barbara Streisand and her gay dads in one breath. Doesn’t even giggle nervously or call him Finn Hudson, you’re incorrigible! or any of the Rachel things she does when she’s being Rachel.
And he’s like, “I mean, I was kidding,” but she’s already looking out the window, clutching her tote bag like it’s full of emotional damage instead of snacks and lip balm.
She presses her lips into a line, like she’s mad or trying not to cry.
So he turns up the radio and changes the subject to how awesome it’ll be when they win Nationals next year.
Sore subject, maybe. Noted.
Whatever. They’re dating now. She chose him.
Right?
A week later he’s on her MySpace page, totally not being creepy, just checking out her new videos. For, uh, support. Emotional. Boyfriend support.
Okay, also to see which one she’s wearing that short blue skirt in. (He’s a dude. Sue him.)
But he stops scrolling when he hears the first few notes of So Far Away.
His mom loves that song. Used to sing it while cooking dinner, back before Burt started to hang around all the time. She’d sing it all quiet and bittersweet, like she was trying not to cry in the mashed potatoes. Finn always figured it was about his dad, ‘cause—well. Dead. That’s about as far away as you can get.
She sounds like heaven and heartbreak and rain-on-windows and all that poetic crap he can never say out loud. The expression she makes—like someone died and she’s still waiting on them to come back. He kind of zones out watching her face—her big eyes staring past the camera like she’s seeing something else entirely. Someone else.
But not him. He’s not far. He’s right here. It’s a ten-minute drive to her house, twenty if there’s construction on Cedar. He knows this. So why does it feel like she’s singing to a ghost?
He leaves a comment anyway:
nice rach but just tell me if you want to hang out :)
No reply.
He's digging through Rachel's disaster desk looking for his wallet because apparently the rule is: if he takes it out in her room, it goes into a black hole of glitter pens and laminated stickers. He finally spots it under a pink notebook with a unicorn sticker that looks mildly judgmental.
And yeah—he knows he shouldn’t read other people’s stuff, but the page is like right there and-
JSJ + RB 4EVER
Mr. & Mrs. St. James
My future Tony Award-winning husband
Hearts. Stars. Swirls of pink gel pen. Like a middle school love spell.
His stomach goes all weird. Not like sick. Just...hot. Tight.
He’s still squinting at it when Rachel walks in right then, smoothing her skirt and asking if her tights look “Broadway casual,” all excited for the Into the Woods production he got them tickets to because he’s a good boyfriend who knows all about musical theater now.
She sees what he’s holding and freezes.
“Oh my God—it’s not—it’s old, I swear,” she blurts, lunging across the room and grabbing the notebook like it just threatened national security. “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t even know why I still have that. I don’t even think about—about him anymore.”
She rips the page out and crams it into her sparkly pink trash bin like she’s performing an exorcism. Then she kisses him—quick, too quick—and says, “We’re gonna be late,” like punctuation, like closure.
They don’t talk about it again.
And look—he’s not trying to be a jerk. He knows Rachel’s allowed to have a past. He’s got one too. (Well. Kind of.)
She gave it up to Jesse. She told him that. Said she trusted Jesse. Said it was special. Cool, whatever. Water under the bridge.
But now, with him, she flinches if he goes anywhere near her chest. Always pushes his hand away, does that breathy laugh and says “Not yet, Finn,” like she’s in an after school special.
And it’s not like he’s pressuring her. He’s a gentleman. He just doesn’t get why the guy who publicly egged her can get farther than the guy who bought theater tickets and learned what a key change is. Jesse got the full Rachel Berry Experience™, and Finn’s still stuck in PG-13 limbo.
She says she wants to wait. That she’s not ready.
And he respects that.
He really does.
But sometimes—when it’s late, and her voicemail’s full, and he’s staring at the stupid unicorn notebook in his brain—he wonders if it’s really about being ready.
Or if it’s just that she already gave that piece of herself to someone else.
Someone she drew hearts around.
Someone who drove a Rolls-Royce.
Someone she sings to like he’s dead.
Finn isn’t dumb.
Not really.
He’s just hoping like hell he’s wrong.