When I walk into the loft, the first thing I see is Santana, who is sitting at the kitchen table, sit up quickly and turn away from me. She seems to be wiping at her face, and if I'm not mistaken, there were tears on her face before she turned away from me.
"Santana?" I walk over to her, so I can see her more clearly and she tries to keep her face turned away from me as long as possible, but her puffy red eyes and tear stained cheeks are hard to hide. I sit down in the chair next to her and put my hand on her knee, deciding that was the safest place. "Hey. What's wrong, honey?"
She looks down at my hand, a scowl forming on her face. "Nothing. Why? What the hell's wrong with you?"
I move my hand away and hesitate before continuing. It looks like she's been crying for a long time. "Okay, well I might believe you if your eyes weren't bloodshot and swollen."
"Well maybe I'm stoned, Berry." She snaps. Her tone is reminiscent to the Santana I knew in high school. "I do that sometimes, you know? There's a lot of things I hide from you."
No arguments there. This has the potential to get very ugly quite quickly, so I do all I know to do where Santana is concerned. I keep my hands to myself, she's not a touchy feely type of person. Well, sometimes you can get a hug out of her, but not often. I don't make any accusations, because she'll just shut down and start yelling. I'm already teetering on the edge here. She hasn't totally shut down, but she's trying.
"You can talk to me, you know?" I say softly and carefully. "I mean, I won't get upset if you don't want to. But you can. If you want to. I'll listen."
She doesn't say anything for a while. I look at her out of the corner of my eye, but can't read her. I never can, honestly. There's a lot of walls to break through where she's concerned. Her eyes remained glued to the table, her arms across her chest. Just when I'm about to get up and leave her be, she speaks.
"My grandmother died." She says simply. No explaination. Not really any emotion.
I don't know what to say. To a normal person, I'd hold them and tell them how sorry I was, but I don't know what to do here. I don't know much about her grandmother, except that she was not very accepting when Santana came out. I don't know if they ever reconciled. Or how close they were. I feel terrible in that moment when I realize that I really don't know much about Santana at all. She seems to know everything about me. Possibly because I talk so much, but still. That's not how friendship is supposed to work.
At a loss for what to do, I reach out again and place my hand in it's previous position on her knee. Her eyes flicker to it, and I can't tell because she was sitting in here in the dark, and the only light is coming from the hall, but her eyes look a little glassy.
"I called her." She whispers, uncrossing her arms so she can reach for her cup, though she doesn't bring it to her mouth. "Before she died. My sister called last week to tell me she had a heart attack. Not a big one, but you know, she's old." She stops and closes her eyes with a heavy sigh. "She was old. I wanted to go back to Lima, but the last time I'd seen her was when I told her I was gay and she threw me out of her house and told me she never wanted to see me again. I was afraid. I didn't think she'd wanna see me."
I don't respond verbally to her, thinking it would be better if I didn't. I did, however, move my hand from her knee to her hand, removing it from the cup and squeezing it. She doesn't do anything, but she doesn't stop me either.
"They said she was doing better, so I thought it would be okay. I wouldn't need to fly back to Lima, because she was going to be okay, but if she saw me, maybe it would stress her out and make her more sick. I didn't wanna do that. She may have hated me, but I loved her." Her voice cracks and she stops talking, looking to her right, I'm assuming so I can't see if she starts crying. I squeeze her hand again. "My mom called me early this morning and told me that she'd had another heart attack in the hospital and they were putting her on hospice care or something. I knew she was at the hospital and I asked if my abuela was awake. She was, so I asked my mom if I could talk to her. I wasn't expecting anything. I just wanted to tell her I loved her. She told me she didn't think it was a good idea, but I begged her."
I can definitely see the moisture in her eyes now, but she's not turning away. This is the first time I've seen any real emotion from her, and I'm scared I'm going to do something wrong, so I just keep silent, holding her hand like I've been doing.
"I could hear them in the room." She continued. "My dad and my sister were there. I guess my mom didn't bother to cover the mouthpiece on the phone or anything because I could hear her tell my abuela it was me and I wanted to talk to her. She said she didn't wanna talk to me. My sister told her that I loved her and she should at least let me tell her that. But she..." She pulls her hand away from me and brings it to her face, tears spilling over. She's trying to control them, but it just isn't working, and she starts crying harder. "...she said she didn't care. Talking to me would be a waste of what little time she had left. Then m-my dad..." Her words were coming out rapidly and out of control. "...he told her that I was her granddaughter and if we were never going to see each other again, didn't she want to at least be able to speak to me? She said no. That her only granddaughter was at her bedside, and the filth in New York was nothing to her."
No longer able to control myself, I scoot closer and put my hand on her back. When she doesn't push me away, I pull her to me, so I can envelope her in my arms. After a couple of seconds, I felt her hands reach up to cling to my shoulders and I can feel her shoulders shaking with sobs as her tears wet my shoulder.
"When my mom called to tell me she was gone, I told her I was glad, because now I don't have to worry about how to gain her love back again. But I don't mean that. She and I used to be so close. I'd spend almost all my time over there. She was one of the most important people in the world to me. But because of one thing, one thing that I can't even control, she hated me up until her death. She hated me so much, she didn't even want to acknowledge my existence."
I rub her back, feeling tears sting at my eyes. I've gone through my own heartache with Shelby, wondering why I wasn't good enough for her to stick around for Sophomore year, or Senior year. But it's different. I never knew Shelby. It wasn't as though she'd raised me and then abandoned me. She just wasn't interested in an adult daughter. I don't know what Santana is feeling. What I do know is that this is the second time I've ever seen her cry in the ten plus years I've known her, and I don't like it. It's somehow...more heartbreaking than seeing Kurt cry. Not that I care about her more. But it's just kind of tragic. I just want to make her stop. To go back to my friend who cracks jokes about my nose or laughs when I say something unintentionally dirty. Or even the bitchy one who complains about the train ride to Brooklyn, because, even though I roll my eyes at them, her rants are always hilarious. I don't want her to be like this. Hurt. Broken. I don't know how it happened, but I've actually grown to care about her a lot.
"I love you." I tell her softly. Her frame stiffens, but she doesn't lift her face. "I love you, and Kurt loves you. We're never going to be ashamed of you. You said it best, we're a family, and I know it doesn't make up for your grandmother, but it's still true. New York is a big place, and it can be really scary, but no matter what, we have each other. The three of us against the world. I know that both of you have my back, and I have yours. You're good enough Santana. You're not filth, or a disgrace, or unworthy of anyone's love. There's nothing wrong with you."
She pulls away and wipes her face, sniffling here and there. "God Berry, you're such a fucking sap." She rolls her eyes and fakes a chuckle, but she's not smiling. After a beat, she looks at me and gives me a small smile. "Thank you. I feel the same way." She takes whatever is in her cup, if I had a guess I'd say a liquor of some sort, and drains it, staring into it when she's finished.
"Are you going to the funeral?" I ask hesitantly.
She shakes her head and sighs. " She wouldn't have wanted me to."
I don't believe that is true and I personally think that woman probably went to wherever she went secretly regretting what had happened between herself and Santana, but I'm not going to say so.
"Well, if you decide to and you need moral support, I'd be happy to go with you."
"And have my relatives think you're my girlfriend? No thank you." She pulls out her chair and stands up, taking her glass to the sink. "No offense, but I think both of us could do better."
I can't help but laugh a little at that. Her walls are back up, and we're not going to talk about this anymore tonight, but at least she knows I'm here. That's as much as I can do. And I think she feels a little better. I think I helped. Maybe.
"Where are you going?" I ask, as she picks up her jacket and purse.
"I am going to the lesbian bar on 5th, I'm going to get drunk, and I'm going to fuck the hottest girl there. And when she's yelling my name, I'm going to look down to hell and I'm gonna say 'This one's for you abuelita'."
With that, she walked out the door, leaving me sitting at the kitchen table with my mouth open. "Maybe not."