"That your girl?" asked Marcus, and Matt looked up from his backpack. Marcus was looking at the newspaper photo Matt had at the top of his locker door.
"Nah, she's just a friend. Santana. We've known each other forever," he said in response, closing the door on the picture.
"Sure is pretty," answered Marcus, and Matt nodded in agreement, didn't say anything.
Later, lying on his bed at his new home on the outskirts of Columbus, he will think about that photo again. It's not the best quality, a clipping from the newspaper from last fall, but it's a good photo. It was Santana's grandfather's funeral, and after the service, after the mourners had all passed by and given Santana and her family their condolences before heading for cover from the increasing rain, Santana had pulled Matt close, peeling off his jacket, loosening his tie, laying her head against his neck.
They'd swayed for a few minutes, his heartbeat strong against her cheek, her breath soft and warm against his neck. And he'd just held her through the first tears, pretending the moisture on his neck was just rain, held her close as he could because that was all she needed. He wasn't sure why the photographer was there, but was glad he had been.
It was a good photo.
His laptop is casting a glow over the room, and he impulsively pulls up Facebook, the picture clear in his mind as he begins the message.
She's surprised when she sees the message: I miss you.
So simple, and yet it says everything that Santana will ever need to know. There might be tears in her eyes as she responds, but she'd never admit to it. Santana Lopez does not cry over things, especially over Matt Rutherford.
Just because he's been her best friend since they were little kids, before school and popularity and sex mattered a bit, doesn't mean she's drowning in angst over the guy. She doesn't think she means to grab her car keys, but she is sure she needs to see him, his solid presence and wide smile and those eyes that seem to see all the way through her, into the deep dark recesses of Santana Lopez.
What a crappy superpower, she thinks as she grabs her laptop.
He's a little surprised when he pulls open the door and it's her, in loose grey sweatpants and a hoodie that he's pretty sure is actually his. But they've done this before.
"Mom's making potato soup," he said, moving aside to let her in.
"Your mom's the shit," she answered simply, pushing the hood back to let her dark hair fall loose and slightly curly around her shoulders. For a second, all Matt can think is her lips are devil red, and her skin's the color of mocha.
They eat soup in the living room; hers choked with pepper, a jalapeño sliced carefully next to her plate. Every time she popped a slice delicately into her mouth, Santana barely contained a moan and a muttered Spanish curse, and Matt thinks it's a ridiculous amount of pleasure from a pepper.
They talk about minor things, Glee, football, school, the little details you can't express through a Facebook wall post. The Princess Bride is playing in the background, and they fall silent every once and awhile to catch a few snatches of dialogue, an interesting scene or two.
"It's less than two hours drive," she said suddenly, carefully picking up the last bit of jalapeño.
"How'd you know that?" he asked, not for any other reason but to hear her voice again.
"I MapQuested that shit, hombre," she said, the curse and the Spanish flowing easily from her lips like water. He never was smooth like her. Matt remembers the first cigarette they shared, how she had swallowed the smoke, looked like she'd been doing it her whole life. He had pressed his lips tightly over the red lipstick mark she'd left on the paper, and nearly choked to death.
Matt remembers the taste of her lingering, the deep red of the imprint, much more then the smoke in his lungs.
"Sorry I've been out of touch so long. I'll work on it," he said, and she nodded, added, "Me too," to the swift motion, still so smooth.
And that's all they need to say, because the level of trust went beyond anything normal or explainable to anyone outside of each other. They had said it, and so it would be.
"Tu estas mi amiga mejor," said Matt, breaking the silence, meeting her eyes over their empty soup bowls. Santana almost laughs at his clumsy Spanish, the accent too thick, the tongue too slow to properly wrap around the syllables. She remembers sitting on the stoop of their apartment building, trying to teach him the basics of her beloved language. He was her best student.
But in that moment she was wordless, because she realized that when Matt said that, what he meant was "I love you." It was strange to think, because she knew he loved her, and she loved him, but something about the words being there, even though they hadn't actually been spoken, changed things.
But in that moment, she felt like Buttercup, even though she thought that that was a ridiculous name.
Her lips, deep red, tasted like pepper and Spanish and trust.
She stared nervously at the page. She hadn't ever had use for this page. She didn't ever do things like this. It scared her.
Nothing scared Santana Lopez.
And the phrase seemed inadequate, but she searched in vain for the fucking-loves-this-amazing-boy-with-his-clumsy-Spanish-and-pretty-smile-and-mom-who-is-the-shit-and-makes-really-awesome-soup button. How can you compact this relationship into nine words, barely two handfuls? She smiles and clicks the button, because it's the best she can do.
It's not so scary after all.
Matt sees the story pop up on his feed, and wishes desperately for some fireworks. He isn't sure what the appropriate reaction is, but he's not sure he's doing it right, with a huge smile and a few clicks to find the appropriate page to update his own status.
Santana Lopez is in a relationship with Matt Rutherford.