Summary: When you were sixteen you would have walked through fire because of her. Now you're twenty-eight old woman. Your feet were covered in Californian's sand, your mouth was bathed with the finest France's wines, your eyes glinted from Tokyo's lights. You tasted world's pleasure and drowned in its delight. However, you still crossed the states for her when you found out she's getting married. And turns out it's not so easy to steal soon to be wife when you only can think about your sassy blonde neighbor.
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Mea Máxima Culpa
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Chapter I
Caught Out In The Rain
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"Isn't love stronger than death? You must know better, you're a poet."
"I write lyrics, not poems."
"Isn't that same?"
"Is it?"
There's a point in your life when you must determine if you're staying true to yourself or turning your back to everything that made you. Some people experience it at the early stages of their lives, another group of people, like you, need a good kick from faith to even think about it. To even bring up a question: am I happy with the way my life is going?
It's easy to answer the question. You can be truthful, admitting that your life is a shit, you want to dig a hole and lie there for eternity. You can be a liar, smile while you're just pathetic punching bag life keeps venting its frustration on. You can be somewhere in between, thinking that you're living in hell, but hey, it's your hell, momma taught you take what life gives to you.
After answering the question all the joy begins. It's funny that, keeping your life on the same track and changing it, have the same question that makes your urge of burying your head in the sand stronger.
What if you'll regret that damn choice you made for the remaining days of your life? You can't go back to where you made this stupid choice and alter it into another one.
When you're young you're moldable, your decisions shape your personality. Mostly, you can be reckless. You can step over the lines. You can jump down stairs, get your leg broken and don't feel guilty about it. You can admit that you were a simple idiot or refuse to acknowledge the panful truth. You can choke on your first cigarette's smoke and the next morning be mortified that vodka made you kiss your best friend. You'll understand that all actions have consequences.
However, when you reach that point, when that question starts to buzz inside your head like that annoying fly in a warm summer morning not letting you sleep, you have to take a step. Keep jumping down the stairs, keep puffing out the smoke because damn it looks so cool, keep kissing your best friend; or stop. Keep, stop, keep, stop, keep, stop. Take your life in your own hands or let the faith control it.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Maybe that's why you needed a Carnelian ring because ancient warriors wore Carnelian around their neck for courage.
Brittany, do you think I need it? Do you think I need some stupid sunset color stone to make me... to keep me brave? Do you need me to walk through fire and swim across the ocean? Does my love to you need to be measured?
Reaching that point in your life is scary. Reaching that point of altering your life when you have to decide on the spot is frightening.
Go, stay, go, stay.
If you go, after everything, will she throw away her life, break up with her soon to be husband? However, maybe that letter is a prayer, is her asking to be saved, her wanting you to take a step, to throw your life away. Will you go and change everything? Or will you stay and let the faith decide for you?
A group of children, with their noses running, laughed, rushing away from their parents, temporary taking away your attention and letting you to take a deep breath.
"Why are you standing here?"
"How could I go there after all this time?"
Toes and fingers were getting cold. Not good. You hated that. In a middle of the summer you were sinking in your own damn cold sweat.
You hated summer. It was usually too hot and had a lot of bugs.
But if there would be no summer Brittany wouldn't talk about it. She wouldn't declare her love of being bathed by sun rays. Her skin wouldn't be the same. You loved every little freckle on her face, on her neck, on her arms. You loved to move your lips against them. You loved how she trembled in your arms.
If there would be no summer, you wouldn't have heard the tale about an old man walking on his foot across a continent to find his lover.
Will she tell this story, but now only you as the main character, to her kids and tell them how foolish you, her ex-lover, were? Or maybe she'll smile and tell them that their mami is the bravest woman she's ever known.
"We travelled all the way." Your neighbor muttered. You heard the bittersweet tone inside her voice.
Don't, Quinn. You know why we're here. You drove me here. Don't be like that. Not after everything. Not after we crossed the states with your friend's old, beaten, pickup truck. Not after those moments. Not after the words that escaped from your lips burned my ear.
Quinn, don't make me cry.
You feel uncomfortable sensing her gaze.
Why it's harder now to make a decision? You waited, you were patient not for few hours or days, you waited for months, for three years for this opportunity.
C'mon, Santana. Please move. Fucking hell.
Cursing was a bad habit you tried to break over the years, but lately you took it from your companion.
Quinn didn't curse in every sentence, but once in a while her subtle frustration showed. She rolled her tongue around bad words like an old sailor that hasn't left the sea.
It always was for simple things like not finding something or getting mad at people.
It always made you smile. She was such an elegant woman, one that learned her manners from a very young age. But then, when she's mad… gosh, how much you loved her face when she's mad. Her face become stony, eyes narrow and lips settle down into a thick line. "Sod off, Santana. You fucking arse." She would say with her accent.
"Santana," Quinn said. "I'm going back to hotel."
Why, Quinn?
You looked at her, fooling yourself that you didn't know why did she gave you that look.
Why would you go, Quinn?
Why wouldn't she?
You sighed and nodded your head.
Santana, move. You made that decision few weeks ago. Move your legs. Move you piece of shit. Move, Lopez.
Neighbors always said your last name like it was the most disgusting thing on their tongues. Lopez that motherfucker girl thinking she's the best goddammit thing that happened to the world. Lopez that sinful bitch, I hope she'll burn in hell. Lopez, Lopez, Lopez, they spat out.
Why when you're so close to your goal you lose yourself?
What happened to a thought: Brittany I'll write you a song if you dance for me. Brittany, whisper to me, Brittany, speak to me. Brittany, I love you. Brittany, be mine. Please.
What happened to you that made you utter: „Please, don't leave me.", to Quinn at the last minute.
Stopping about a foot away, she heard your cry. Quinn turned back to you, shaking her head. Her eyes, that took your breath away, once were filled with adventure, excitement, mirth. Now, the gleam was gone and it took your breath away in another way. "Don't," she said.
"I need you."
"Do you?"
She turned around once again.
Decisions, decisions, decisions, two days before the wedding.
Your heels clicked on the pavement with a fast temp almost matching those kids.
What an annoying rhythm your heels made.
You hated that too.
"I'm waiting for your new poem."
"I haven't write it yet."
"Why?"
"Don't feel like writing depressing songs."
"Then make a happy one."