Title taken from Matchbox Twenty's "Girl Like That"
You first see her on a Friday night. She is different, not like every other customer. She looks lonely, but not alone. She struts up to the bar, leaning in between two stools, and tapping her fingers on the hard wood. She seems like she is in a hurry. Maybe she is in a hurry to get back to her man, that guy she was dancing with who has that bad-boy sneer. Or maybe she is in a hurry to get her drink so she can escape.
You get her drink and then she is gone, like so many others before her. But she is not like others before her. Her eyes so brown, her hair so glossy, her smile so calculated. She is not like the others.
Sometimes you see her throughout the night, when spaces open up between people dancing and making out. She dances sexually with her guy, her hips swaying sensually and her mouth turned up in a smirk. He holds his own, but you kind of wish you were him instead. You would be a much better partner.
She comes back for a refill – later, much later. She is laughing as she leans over the bar and you think her blouse might be a little too low cut – or maybe not low cut enough (you can't decide if you want to cover her up or stare down her shirt). You go to mix her drink and as she waits her boy saddles up behind her, hands wandering over her ass possessively. It makes you sick and also makes you wish you were him again.
She doesn't seem to care. She smiles at him and you wish you were him, even if his mohawk is stupid.
He kisses his way down her neck, but she swats him away when you hand over her drink. She smiles at you and says thank you, but it doesn't mean much – except it means everything – because she is dragging him away. She is his and he is hers and you are nothing really. Just the girl who mixes the drinks.
You dance during the day. You're taking classes at the University. They have an okay music program. It is nothing like those schools in New York that your mom praises, but it is enough for you. You take contemporary and hip hop, although you have a secret passion for ballet. You don't have the right body for it, though. You gave it up when you were eleven and hit puberty – an early bloomer.
Hit and one, two, hit, four, five, hit, six, seven and hit and spin.
Dancing is neither easy nor hard for you. It just is. You let it sweep you up, carry you to the clouds where you can watch the birds fly and rain gather.
You don't know what you're going to do with your life, yet. You're only twenty-one. You take your dance classes two days a week and journalism and photography every other day. You have your bartender gig and it is enough for now, thanks to your student loans and small scholarship. Your parents pitch in too, sometimes.
You feel like there is something waiting out there for you. It is elusive and unnamable, but it is there.
You just have to find it.
You see her two more times. She always orders the same thing – Jack and coke – and you think it doesn't really fit her. Maybe her boyfriend turned her on to it. You think he is her boyfriend, at least. She is always with him.
Always dancing, always laughing, always kissing, kissing. You still wish you were him.
He gets to hold her, dance with her, be handsy and flirty with her.
He gets to know her name.
You finally meet her, two weeks later, on a rainy Wednesday. She never is here on weekdays, but she is here now. Her mouth pulls at the corners, stretching thin and tight, a rubber band waiting to snap. You give her a martini before she can ask for her usual.
Her eyebrows crease as she takes a sip, but she doesn't say anything. Then she smiles and you feel light inside. Your heart is full of helium. Tie it to a string because you are floating, floating, up to the clouds to your dancing spot. But you are not dancing. You are just smiling, and she is smiling back.
What is this? She tilts her head to the side a little and you shrug.
A martini.
It's good. She looks around slowly, but you aren't very busy tonight so there isn't much to see. Eventually she looks back to you and it feels like her eyes have unhinged and swallowed you whole. You are blind to everything but her and you don't even know her name.
I'm Brittany. You don't know what else to say, but you think it's okay because her lips stop pulling too tight.
Santana.
Where is your boyfriend? You sometimes say the wrong things, but you wanted to know, so you had to ask. Did you find someone better? You try to make a joke, but it comes out not quite right.
Her lips pull together again and you think you said the wrong thing, more than the wrong thing you thought you said before.
I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that. It's not my business.
She looks at you long and hard, deep and prying. Then she sighs and shrugs. We broke up.
I'm sorry.
It's okay, it's my fault.
You don't believe that for a second because she has her lonely, guarded eyes and her calculated smile and why would he leave her? She is beautiful.
I cheated on him, she admits. She looks guilty and pained, fingers twiddling with the olive in her drink and eyes staring a hole through the sticky countertop.
He wasn't the one for you, then.
She looks at you then, face pinched together in confusion.
If he was, you say, he would've given you a reason to stay with him.
Her hand falls to the countertop and her mouth parts in surprise. You think she might not have expected you to say anything like that. You mean it though.
I'm sorry, I don't even know why I told you that. You probably don't want to hear about my problems. You don't even know me.
I'd give you a reason to stay, Santana. You smile at her because you mean it, you really would. Her eyes open up again and you know then, you're a goner. You have caught her off guard and now she is a book and you feel like you are good at speed reading.
It is good that you can speed read because in the next second she has pulled tight again, like memory elastic, a zipper yanked up, quick and crisp.
You walk away before she can respond, on to the next customer.
But she is not like the others, so you look back and meet her heavy eyes and you think she might be heavy too, but she is holding on to your helium filled heart so you stay, you stay.
She has scurried away before you can blink, bills fluttering to the counter, martini only half-gone. You'd give her a reason to stay, though.
She is not like the others.
You were right.
It is Thursday and she is back. She is dressed nicely – you think she looks sexy in a suit – and her hair is carefully pulled over one shoulder.
He wasn't the one for me.
It's not my business.
She looks happier today, relaxed like summer and hammocks and the breeze. Maybe not. But you were right.
You shrug. Do you want a drink?
She sends you a little smirk and maybe that's not helium in your heart. Maybe it's something else. A martini.
You giggle a little because she is cute.
She is not like the others.
It is late when you leave work, and you are so, so exhausted from dancing all day. Your feet feel blistered like your calluses were pushed too hard and your abs ache, bitter and crunching together.
You push out the door, into the back alley, streetlights filling the small street with more warmth than there actually is. It is only barely spring.
Brittany.
She is leaning against the brick wall and you jump in surprise. You thought she had left long ago.
You start to ask what she is doing here still, but she is moving closer and you find it hard to breathe. Your lungs have filled with lead or maybe iron.
Her lips on yours are warm and wet and you gasp a little at the feeling. It is like nothing else you have felt. It is different.
She is different.
She pulls away and her eyes are wide and shocked. She didn't mean to kiss you.
Oh my God. I'm sorry – I didn't mean to do that – I just came to say – never mind. She turns around in an attempt to leave, but you grab her arm. It feels cool and wind-brushed.
No, wait. She faces you again and it looks like she might be sick. Are you okay?
I should go, she whispers, but no, please no. You have seen her, felt her, please don't leave.
No, wait. I don't mind. She stares at you and you lick your lips. I liked it. We can try again if you want.
She shakes her head frantically and yanks her arm from your grasp.
Then she is gone.
It has been a week since you've seen her. A week has never felt longer.
You are confused because you don't understand her. You understand that she is beautiful and you understand that she is scared. Her heavy eyes haunt you and you understand that they are guarded and she is guarded and that is why you can't see her soul. The eyes are the windows to the soul, they say.
But you did see her. Even if it was just for a moment, you saw her.
You dance and dance, stretching out the confusion, hoping you will float away to the clouds. Sometimes you can see everything so much more clearly from up here.
You wonder if you will see her again. The thought that you might not hurts.
You dance and dance, collecting the sadness like snowflakes, hoping you will float away to the clouds. Sometimes you think everything is smaller from up here.
The clouds are not far enough, you think. Everything is still too big and yet too, small. You can't see her from up here, either.
The night is uncharacteristically warm and you feel uncharacteristically warm when you see her. She sits down at the very end. She is quiet – not laughing or giving you that loud smile, just sitting. You want to be nervous or maybe even mad because she has left you so confused, but she is wearing tight jeans and a frilly black tank top that shows off her toned, tan arms. She is too beautiful for words.
Hi.
Hey. She is timid and the air around her is warped with a sadness that makes you heavy like her heavy eyes. It fills your chest with too much blue air and you're not sure you are breathing properly.
Do you want something to drink?
I'm sorry. You're not sure why she is apologizing because you don't really know her, even if you've seen her. You only saw her for a moment.
For what?
She shakes her head and it makes her hair fall over her shoulder. You want to tuck it away so you can see her again, again, but she is a doe and if you make a sudden move she might run. Can we talk after you get off work?
Okay.
She asks for water and you watch her sip it for hours until you finally get to leave. You gesture for her to follow you and you walk to where your car sits in the parking lot. She crosses her arms, but her lips aren't pulled tight.
I didn't mean to do that the other night.
Kiss me? You wish she would kiss you again.
Run away. Her voice is rich chocolate, sweet and dark and so delicious.
You watch her carefully, waiting. You're not sure what you're waiting for.
I'd like to… try again. If the offer still stands. Her voice quivers slightly and you can see her again. You can see her and you smile.
You step forward and grab her hand, uncrossing her arms. Her hands shake, like leaves in the breeze, and you feel bumps rising on her arms. You lean in slowly and gently touch your nose to hers. Then you wait. You wait for her to do it, because she is scared and you don't push things that are scared.
She breathes out and you breathe in – now you can see her and feel her. Her lips shiver, a millimeter from your own, and then she inches forward.
It is slow and questioning, but it feels so right. You were right. She is not like the others.
Your heart floats into the air, but it is tied to a string and she holds that string. She holds your hand tightly in hers, too. It hurts so good.
When she pulls away she looks terrified, but then she smiles quietly and you smile back.
You squeeze her hand and it feels like a beginning.
She comes over after work a few days a week. She doesn't seem so scared anymore.
She kisses you often and whispers that she is addicted to your beautiful mouth. You like her confidence – it makes you twist inside with pleasure.
You like when she is in your bed with only her panties and your shirt on. She wears her glasses sometimes and does reading for her classes. She is pre-law and sometimes has to dress nicely to look professional. You think she is unbearably sexy.
Everything feels like sugar, sweet and sticky. You are enamored with her and the way she kisses your stomach. She is always understanding of you and her patience enraptures you, wrapping around you like fog on Christmas Eve.
You don't talk about your relationship, though, and sometimes you are confused.
You ask her to go on a date with you, when you are lying in the dark, her limbs draped over you, and your fingers tickling through her beautiful hair. She says yes. She says it with trepidation, but she agrees.
She is as beautiful as ever on your date. You take her to a nice restaurant and everything seems perfect.
She won't hold your hand, though, because she is scared. You wish she wasn't because her eyes have closed again for the first time since you kissed in the parking lot and you can't see her. You thought you had gotten so good at seeing her.
Everything is too tense and too heavy and you feel pulled down. She is too quiet when she drinks her wine and you kind of wish you had picked a movie or bowling instead.
What's wrong?
She says nothing is wrong, but she is lying. You can see her shoulders scrunching up. She is hiding like a little turtle or maybe a hedgehog. You wish she wouldn't. She is beautiful and unlike anyone else.
You want to tell her to stop. Stop hiding, Santana, you are perfect. I think I might love you.
You stay quiet, though. She will hide even more if you say something.
You get a D on your journalism midterm and it makes you angry inside. You know you could have done better.
You escape to your unfinished basement in your tiny house and turn the music up too loud. It doesn't drown out your thoughts like you had hoped. You dance angrily and freely, with no control. Your arms swing too much and your legs hit the ground too hard on each step. You spin, faster and faster, and then you are crying and spinning and you feel scared. You cannot dance forever and careers are few and far between. You need a backup plan, but you can't do anything right, except dance.
Hands clamp down on your hips and you stop spinning, but you don't stop crying.
Britt, what's wrong?
Nothing. You choke on your words. You don't like lying, but you know it isn't a very good lie, so it doesn't matter. How did you get in here?
You left the front door unlocked. You can hear your music from the street.
She wipes your hair away from your eyes, uncaring of how sticky from sweat and tears and frustration you are.
Britt-Britt, look at me. Her eyes are open again, unlocked like your front door. She is worried about you.
I'm okay.
No you're not. She searches your face again. Tell me.
I'm just scared, you say. I don't know what to do with my life.
She smiles gently and pulls you close to her. She smells perfect, like soap and Santana and closeness. It's okay to be scared.
You sigh because she doesn't listen to herself. She is so smart, but sometimes so clueless. She is scared too often.
She presses a kiss to your cheek and keeps talking, distracting you with stories that make you laugh and feel better. She knows what you need and in return she stays open for you. You can see her and you can see that she cares about you, but she cares about what other people think, too.
Seeing her is like a rollercoaster, up and down, down and up.
Months have passed and you still don't know what is going on with her. Are you dating? Are you friends with really great benefits? Why don't you ever talk about it?
It is May and the nights have gotten sticky. They are even stickier when she has you pressed to the bed, tongue running hotly down your neck. Her eyes are like lightning, bright and electric with lust.
It makes you dizzy with arousal and want, even as you are dizzy with confusion.
Santana.
She looks at you. Her stormy eyes are dark, but inviting.
What are we doing? You gesture between the two of you so she understands.
Living, she says, and curls your hair around her finger.
You sigh because you know she understands what you're trying to say – she always can – but she's evading you. She is still scared, her hedgehog spikes unfurled. She thinks she can hide behind them, but sometimes they make her stick out even more.
We don't need to label this, B. Why can't we just be us?
I'm not trying to label anything. I'm just trying to understand.
What's there to understand? I like you and you like me. You don't say anything, because there is a lot to understand and why is she closing her eyes again? You want her to open more. You are so confused.
Plus, she whispers hotly. I think you're super sexy right now.
She nibbles on your ear and you groan in defeat. You want her to explain – she always explains when you don't understand – but you are afraid, too. She makes your head feel heavy and your heart feel light and you love her. You know you do.
She runs when things are too open, though, and you need her. She can't leave.
You will love her like this for now. Any way to love her is better than nothing.
It isn't long before you can't take it anymore.
Santana. What are we doing?
She looks up from where she is studying – it is almost finals – and it takes her eyes a second to focus on you. They are open today and that is a good sign.
Studying, B. So you can pass journalism, remember?
No, I mean, me and you. What are we doing?
She blinks slowly and there her eyes go, shutting like blinds on a sunny day. I don't have time to talk about this, Brittany.
You wouldn't talk about it even if there was time, Santana.
She flinches at your voice. It is too sharp, like a crow cawing into silence. You steady yourself. I just want to know what's going on with us.
She shuts her book and turns to you full on. There is nothing going on with us. You know that.
No I don't. If there's nothing going on, then why are you here? Why are you here in my bed every night? Why haven't you run off to someone else?
She looks like you slapped her, and you can't believe you said that. She stands up and your lungs clench together, refusing air. No, don't leave.
Don't leave.
No, Brittany, you're right. Let's talk about this. She points to you angrily. Did you think I was just going to change everything for you? I'm not gay. She puts her hands on her hips, but you aren't scared of her. You have seen her.
I love you.
Her eyes bulge and she looks away. No you don't, she says quietly.
Yes, I do. Don't tell me how I feel. You can't even accept what you feel. Don't tell me what I know I feel, Santana.
You can't! She looks back to you. You can't! She is screaming now. You don't love me Brittany. I'm not right for you.
That's what this is about? You feel worthless? Stop being so selfish and just admit you feel something, Santana. That's all I've ever wanted. Why can't you just open up to me? Do I look like I'm going to hurt you?
You say the wrong things too often. This fight has come out of nowhere but also everywhere. She can never stay open long enough for you. She never talks to you about real things. It has been months. You have kept this confusion in for months.
Now she thinks you are too good for her. She doesn't see she is not like the others. She is beautiful and smart. She thinks she is worthless and that is why she is not like the others.
She stares at you for a long moment before she gathers up her books and slides her jeans up her legs.
No, no, no!
Don't leave.
She shakes her head and her ponytail whips around her face. Then she is leaving and you hear her crying and you feel heavy. She has never cried in front of you before. Now she is crying because of you.
Everything hurts too much. Why did you have to say something?
Now you don't get to love her at all.
You haven't seen her in two weeks. She never answers your calls or texts.
You passed journalism and it's summer, but that means you have no distractions. You think about her too much, too often. You dance sometimes, in your basement, but you can't escape to the clouds.
Your body feels too heavy, and your heart must weigh a thousand pounds. You stumble over your feet because they have turned to steel.
The air you breathe is always too thick and you can't think straight anymore. Everything within you aches.
Sometimes you think there is something waiting for you out there.
You have seen it and you have found it.
Then you lost it and now you are sinking down, down.
You pick up extra shifts at the bar now that it's summer. You stay there far too late and you are tired all the time. You can't sleep. You wake up too early, limbs itching to move, to run, to dance, like you could escape this weight.
It is inside you, though. It's hibernating in there, bunkering down for a long term stay in your chest. You need the weight to breathe, but it's making it hard to inhale, exhale, inhale.
Sometimes you think your long shifts are a good thing. Maybe she will come in. Maybe she misses you as much as you miss her. You miss seeing her, both physically and emotionally. You miss her eyes. You are still blind to everything but her, but now there is no her, so you are just blind.
She never comes in like you hope.
You get a job. Kind of.
You write a freelance article about the local grocery store and their fresh produce. You send it around town and one of the local newspapers publishes it. Then they give you a column. It's a small one, a few paragraphs that only get published online, not in print, but it's a start.
You feel good about yourself and things are starting to look up. You're getting your foot in the door of the adult world
Something is still missing, though.
You try to convince yourself that something isn't her.
You've never been a good liar, though, especially to yourself.
It is late when you finally park in your driveway. You still work at the bar, so you get home later than you should. It is a good distraction and you still need money.
You stop when you get to your front door. Something has moved in the shadows and you turn around. She is sitting on your porch, beautiful in the dim light, with her tiny jean shorts and her tight tank top. It is too dark to see her eyes.
Hi, she says.
You think you might be dreaming. She is not here. She can't be.
Brittany?
What are you doing here?
She bites her lip and looks away nervously, and you can't believe she's here. God you've missed her so much. You've missed her pouty lips and her husky voice. You've missed her tiny hands and the way they feel running through your hair and the way her fingers curl deep inside you. You've missed her smile and how it feels to hold her and make her laugh.
I was wrong, she says eventually. You were right. You're always right.
You tilt your head to the side waiting for her to continue. It feels like you're bleeding, though – not blood, but liquid steel. Your heart is bleeding out the weight.
She finally looks at you again, and the porch light hits her face just right. Open up to me, you want to whisper, because her eyes are there, right there.
I've really missed you. Things haven't been the same without you. She is skirting around the topic, but your heart flutters anyway. Open up to me, Santana.
She starts to say something, then stops. Then starts again. I think I'm gay. It comes out as a squeak and she is a tiny little hedgehog that you want to curl your hands around and keep safe. She is not hiding, though.
And you were right. I… want to be with you, Brittany.
This isn't happening. You've been heavy for so long.
I love you. I hope I'm not too late.
You can't say anything – you are in shock. You must be underwater because your ears feel wet and they can't hear. You are blind and you are deaf to everything but her.
Her expression is stoic, waiting for you to respond, but you can't. She shakes her head, face crumpling, and turns away.
No, wait. You grab her arm and she stops. I'm so proud of you, you whisper, and she turns around. You pull her to you, wrapping your arms around her tiny body, and she folds into you. God, you've missed her.
We can try again if you want.
I'd really like that, she says.
Then she is crying, sobbing into your shirt, and you hold her closer. Come inside, you say after a moment, and you open the door.
You pull her to your bedroom and she strips out of her clothes while you get ready for bed. When you are done in the bathroom, she is in her panties and your shirt and it is so much like before, but also so different, that you want to cry. Her eyes are open and she stares at the wall and you stare at her. She is still crying, but she is still so beautiful.
You turn the light off and lay down next to her. She immediately rolls into your side and clutches your shirt.
I've been so lost, she says.
You press kisses to her hair and tell her you missed her. You have been heavy without her, her denial dragging you down.
I'm sorry, she whispers, but you say nothing. You kiss her and kiss her and take her – your – shirt off and you can see her. She is perfect when she is open, a flower in bloom.
I love you, you tell her and kiss your way down her body. You will show her because she understands you and you know she will understand this now that she is so open.
You make love to her and it is beautiful. It is like nothing else. She is like nothing else, with her throaty moans and perfect gasps, voice silky when it glides over your name.
She is like nothing else.
You sign up for a summer dance class. It feels good to move again. Your limbs are weightless and they snap and pop easily. The music flows through your body and the corners of your lips are light as air – they float up, up.
You see her one day, waiting in the audience when your class is almost over. She is not the only one there, but you are blind to everything but her.
Her eyes stand out to you, even from far away. They are happier these days, not deep enough to swallow you anymore. They spark and make butterflies tingle up your spine when they catch yours. She smiles her loud smile and you are blind and deaf to everything but her.
She pulls you into a hug after class, even though you are sweaty and smelly. You tell her so, but she just laughs and takes your gym bag from your shoulders.
One of the other girls from your class comes up to tell you good job. The girl asks who your friend is and you start to make introductions, but you are interrupted.
I'm Santana. Brittany's girlfriend.
She sticks her hand out and the girl shakes it and says congratulations, she is dating an amazing dancer.
Brittany is an amazing person, she corrects and everything feels dizzy and light.
It feels like your heart is full of helium, but maybe that's not helium.
I love you, she says, when she has opened the car door for you.
Her smile and her eyes, they are so open, and everything feels weightless. Your heart is full, but it's not helium. It is full of her and of love and of happiness.
You start to float away to the clouds, but you are tied to her, your heart attached to hers, and you both float up, up. You float to the clouds, to your dancing place, but you are not dancing. You are just loving, and she is loving back, and it is perfect.
She is perfect.