This is weird, I know. But the thing about not having any kind of plan for your story is that you will sometimes mess the fuck up. So...yeah, I'm re-writing this, :P SORRRYYYY people. My apologies.
Santana closed the notebook and sighed frustratedly, tossing the pen aside. Her hand was aching from writing so much, but she couldn't help it, once the words were out, they just flowed onto the page. She could still smell the fresh grass and feel the sand between her toes and Brittany's scent, which she totally took for granted, it was as if she were eight years old again. Santana certainly didn't want to think about it, yet her head was buzzing with memories. For months afterwards, she'd hoped for the blonde's call, Brittany had promised to call her. Brittany had promised she'd write. Brittany had promised they'd be friends forever.
Then again, she also promised she'd come that morning. Santana cringed, whatever happened to being over it? A lot has changed since then. This story had a happy ending. She was no longer the innocent little girl who spent her time building sandcastles and counting all the beautiful things around her. No, at 17 years of age (turning 18 the following month), Santana Lopez was now one of Hollywood's biggest and most promising young creations. With an album that's just gone platinum worldwide (including 3 songs currently dominating charts in Europe, Asia and North America, plus another three in the Billboard top 10, but who's counting?) and an upcoming role in Steven Spielberg's latest flick, she was at the top of the world. Fans screamed, hooted and proposed to her everywhere she went. The paparazzi literally stakeout outside her penthouse apartment in Manhattan 24/7, as well as any hotel she happened to be staying at on tour. Her life was awesome, what teenager wouldn't want to have millions to spend on whatever they pleased? What teenager wouldn't love to have fans waiting in line for hours in whatever climate just to get a teeny tiny glimpse of their idol? What teenager wouldn't kill for an endless list of people begging to go on one date with her? You'd have to be nuts not to want those things, and Santana was no exception. What, were you expecting some cheesy crap about it "just being the music" for her? That she, in fact, didn't want the fame and fortune, the glitz and glamor? This humble narrator only has one thing to say to you: Are you on drugs? Please people.
Still, there was just one trivial detail in the girl's life that she wasn't quite happy with yet. She was not having her 18th birthday bash in some lousy club in New York just because it was 'one of the hottest clubs in the country'. Apparently a ton of other celebs had had parties there or whatever. Who cared? Santana was not a follower, she hadn't made it being a follower, she's a fucking trendsetter, and that's the way it's gonna stay. For the big one, people have promised her extravagant cars, modeling contracts, trips around the world, over the top stuff like that, hoping to win over her affections. She wasn't really interested though, she really did have everything she wanted already. So what if one Brittany Susan Pierce hadn't shown up and therefore may or may not have broken her heart into a gazillion little pieces that day. Honestly, the blonde did her a favor, had she been there to say goodbye, they would've kept contact, still be best friends, still be ridiculously co-dependent and things probably would've turned out differently by now. She never would've toughened herself up for this world. So, for that at least, she's thankful she never got to see those one-in-a-billion pair of blue eyes again.
A knock on the door snapped Santana out of her thoughts and a head poked inside. "Hey, I just spoke to the club in Vegas, and they said they'd love for you to have your party there."
Santana rolled her eyes, of course they did. Everyone wanted a piece of her, clubs and hotel bars all over the States (and she's pretty sure all over the world) would kill for a chance to have her party hosted there, it's all about who you know in this industry. The club owners are probably popping expensive champagne open right at that moment, practically drooling over what this could mean for their establishment. Whatever, she didn't care how much they'd get out of this, but they'd better make this a once-in-a-millennium event, because just as easy as Santana can get them maximum exposure and therefore millions in revenue, she could send them out of business with a snap of her fingers.
Thankfully, the club pulled it off, the place looked fucking awesome. Once you walked inside, you'd instantly get the feeling that this was a party you won't forget for a long, long time. That's for those lucky enough to get an invite, there were, of course, a few crazies wanting to crash, but the security took care of them well enough. Everything was going according to plan
Santana was having the time of her life. Dancing amidst the mass of bodies while feeling slightly tipsy was kind of awesome. Especially when all everyone there wanted was to dance with her and her alone (well, aside from her manager, agent, etc etc, because, ew). There's something about being desired by people whom you don't necessarily want back that just never gets boring. So she gave them a show, gyrating slowly to the thumping beat, mostly alone, but when some particularly attractive individual slides up to her, she'd let them grab onto her hips for a while, the extremely fortunate ones even got to inhale some of that intoxicating scent that's a mixture of expensive perfume, sweat and something that's uniquely Santana Lopez.
The massive, God knows how many layer cake is brought out at exactly midnight and it actually tasted pretty good (as it should), and she's grateful that they didn't do the weird thing where someone pops out of the cake (because that would be creepy, someone being INSIDE your food, waiting to pop out and surprise you). That would also be a big waste of the space where cake should be. What? She's not a model, she didn't have to starve herself, and besides, she's one of those people who could eat whatever and still be thin. That's right, be jealous.
Everyone clapped and congratulated her, most of it is probably fake, and the ones that are genuinely happy are because she's made enough money for them to last three lifetimes. She's not stupid, everyone's out for themselves, and all the friends she'd made while on top would dump her in a second if she ever stumbled.
It's around 3am in the morning when she found herself at the bar, downing a couple of shots. Not because she's drowning in self pity or whatever (because she's made it, so what's there to pity?) but because she's bored and this would probably be a rare occasion where she could. Most of the time she'd need to stay relatively sober to keep a clean image and avoid getting a killer hangover the following morning. She didn't mind it, because the one time she did get disgustingly shitfaced, Santana had somehow managed to blubber out everything she'd kept bottled up about Brittany to her manager. Like, everything. She cringed, just thinking back to that night. (And no, there will not be a cheesy flashback of said night, sorry).
Speaking of her manager, she still hadn't received her present from the woman yet. Everyone else was more than eager to hand over their gifts. The Hilton even gave her her own private suite, which, yeah, was kinda cool.
Quinn (that's the manager's name, by the way) had promised her the best gift, ever. So that was gonna be interesting. Out of everyone she's ever met, the blonde and her just seemed to click the best. They had a good business relationship, Santana was one of Quinn's biggest clients, and in return, the blonde knew just how to keep her at the top. But more than that, they were...dare she say, friends? Like, they definitely didn't go round to each other's houses, tell horror stories and braid each other's hair, but they could talk once in a while about things that didn't have to do with her next big project (not to mention the above-mentioned night which Santana desperately wanted her to forget). But only once in a full moon.
"What's up?" Ahh, speak of the devil. No wait, she was the devil here. Quinn was more of the angelic type when it came down to non-business things (in a 'serious relationship' with Sam Evans aka trouty mouth von Bieberhausen. Ok, so only she called him that, but it was totally a fitting nickname).
Santana shrugged. "Not much, still waiting for my present from you. It's gonna be tough to beat that Mercedes, Q." It's meant to be a joke, but neither of them laughed.
"Right, come on then." The blonde started to make her way towards the VIP lounge, motioning for her to follow. They probably needed privacy for this (not THAT- you all are perverts).
She nodded and stood up, making sure to bring her vodka tonic along, alcohol seemed to make everything better.
Once inside, Quinn wordlessly pulls out an envelope from her back jeans pocket (oohh, had she been keeping it there the whole time just to create this dramatic moment of revelation?) and slid it over the glass table to Santana, who just cocked an eyebrow.
The blonde shrugged, no, it's not a check.
She ripped the white envelope open (because who could be bothered to open it "properly"?), only to see a single white piece of paper, with...wait for it, a series of numbers written on it. It's a phone number (wow, no kidding).
"What's this?" Santana questioned. She already had the numbers of everyone who's anyone in this business. Whose number could she possibly want-
Unless...her heart literally stopped for a second, no, it couldn't have been (ahh, but it was). How the fuck did Quinn get this number, assuming the number belonged to the person she thought it did? Wait, dumb question, she probably had eyes and ears all over the country, scouting for the next big thing and whatnot. Connections, connections, connections, if nothing else, Quinn had them. She could probably find out what freakin Waldo ate for breakfast that morning with one phonecall.
"It's Brittany's number," Quinn said casually, grinning, not knowing the can of worms she'd just opened in Santana's mind, "you always yap on about not having real friends in the biz, well here you go." Jesus Christ, she'd only said it once, twice tops, and she sure as hell didn't mean Brittany.
Santana just stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of her, a million questions in her mind. God, Brittany. Brittany. It shouldn't have been a big deal, she should've been quite happy to get back in touch with an old, dear friend. They used to be so close, after all. But if only it were so simple. You see, Santana was kinda, maybe, sorta in love with her ex-best friend (bet you didn't see THAT one coming, huh?). Yup, it's the age old, cliched tale of falling for your best friend (before you had even known what love was). At that moment in time, however, she hadn't realized it yet, so the sudden increase in heartbeat confused her a little. Or, y'know, a lot.
"Well?" Quinn snapped her fingers in front of Santana, who'd unknowingly gotten lost in thought for a second. "Give her a call, I wanna meet this girl. Must've been something else, huh? Miss 'I think she was like, my soulmate or something'." (oh God, did Santana really say that?)
"It's been 10 years, how do I know she'd even remember me?" The thought disheartened her majorly. Maybe it was true though, maybe the reason Brittany hadn't shown up that day was because she'd gotten sick of her or something. It hurt, the possibility of Santana feeling so much for the blonde, still, and it not being mutual. She wasn't used to not being loved and adored, especially by the one person she loved the most.
"You're kidding, right? Your face is on thousands of billboards, your songs played on the radio every 5 minutes. How could anyone NOT remember you?" True, ever since she'd hit the big time, everyone and anyone from her past had shown up, even the people whom she'd never spoken to in high school.
A sudden buzzing sensation in Santana's pants interrupted the conversation. It was a text from Blaine, wanting to meet up for coffee (even though it was 3am, but let's just ignore that, shall we?). Ahhh, Blaine Anderson, her boyfriend (shall we stop for a few moments to let you pick your jaws up off the floor?). Well, to everyone but a few people, he was her boyfriend anyway. Their two managers had one day come together and decided that they were gonna fake date (later on, she found out that Blaine's manager had more or less begged Quinn and her to help him, why? Well let's just say that Blaine's gay, dating Broadway producer Kurt Hummel in secret and wanted her as a beard…actually that pretty much summed up the situation.) Santana had agreed, much to Quinn's dismay. It wasn't that Blaine wouldn't have made a good fake boyfriend (good looking, charming personality and a clean image), it's just that if people did find out, the whole thing would blow up into a huge mess. Not to mention when he does come out…awwkkwarddd. Quinn still thought that Santana wanted Blaine to owe her a favor, but secretly, she had a secret of her own. The girl was gay. There was not a single doubt in her mind that she was a lesbian. She'd accepted it, but coming to terms with it was one thing, and telling people was a whole different thing. No, she was not gonna cut her hair short and take up golfing or whatever lesbians did. That shit was not for her. So, no one knew. Not Quinn, not her parents, not even Blaine (but honestly, who was he kidding? Think Ricky Martin, but ten times more obvious).
God, fake dating was exhausting. All the photo op's and the superficial smiles for the cameras and his asking her if 'this was alright' every 5 minutes would've been fun had it not gotten so annoying. Maybe she really did need a friend to talk to. Someone who wouldn't care about her sexuality. She sighed, looking down at the now creased piece of paper (she'd been subconsciously folding and unfolding it for the past few minutes).
That night (or rather, early morning), as Santana got inside her stretch limo, the small piece of paper burned a hole inside her pocket.