A/N: First of all, I just wanted to say thank you all so, so much for all the wonderful reviews. I didn't expect such a voluminous response from only one chapter.

Secondly, the italicized portion of the story indicates a flashback, which will happen periodically throughout the story. I hope that doesn't confuse anyone.

Thirdly, I know that I'm constantly giving only snippets of information, and it can be somewhat frustrating, so for that I'm sorry. But where would the fun be if I played all my cards right away? ;)

Anyway, thanks again for reading. And as always, I'm looking forward to hearing from y'all.

Chapter 2:

How did it get to this point? More importantly how did I let it get to this point? Four months ago I was pleasantly miserable in my status-post breakup with Brittany, happily going about my daily routines with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Pleasantly miserable, happily with a bitter taste...okay, I know those are all textbook definitions of contradictions, but hey, if the shoe fits...

The reason I can say I was pleasantly miserable is because it is a much more welcomed feeling than what is currently happening to me. Yeah, I was immensely bummed about my recent breakup, and even more devastated when I found out about Brit's recent fascination with amphibian lips through Tina "Gossip Queen" Cohen-Chang. But I knew it was for the better. Brit and I were in two different places in our lives, and even though she never changed, I knew that I had. She deserved to be with someone who could be there for her, and give her the attention that is important in a relationship. However, regardless of whatever heartbreak I felt at that time, it is a far cry from this feeling of deep aching that currently resides in my chest.

How the hell did I get to this point?

Oh yeah, it's because I let myself fall in love with Quinn fucking Fabray. And it's not like I can blame it on happening all of a sudden without my knowledge, because I know that THAT is total bullshit. I knew exactly what was happening, I could feel it grow stronger every time she kissed me unexpectedly, and every time I was the reason for her beautiful smile. I plummeted further whenever my name escaped her lips during her highest experiences of euphoria, and every time she nuzzled her nose deeper into my neck as she slept I knew I would be lost forever.

And so, I let myself fall for the woman who was never available, at least not for me. I fell for the woman who had made it painstakingly clear from the very beginning that she was only in it for the sex, and I was so full of myself that I agreed to it. I so strongly believed that I could separate the sex from the feelings and that I could control my ability to get invested into a relationship that never had a chance.

Now all I can do is watch silently as she rampages around my "room" all the while haphazardly throwing her belongings into duffel bag. I know I should say something to stop her from leaving, to prevent whatever it is that we have from ending, but nothing is coming to mind. Instead I just wander into the living room to slouch into the couch and bury my face in my hands. I can't help how emotionally attached I've become, but I know that what I'm asking of her isn't entirely unreasonable, especially when I KNOW she feels the same way about me.

Her angry footsteps approach me, and I look up from where I'm sitting when they've abruptly stopped somewhere in the room. She's standing, now, in front of the door, clutching her duffel bag in one hand, while wiping away her tear stained cheeks with the other. I guess I should make somewhat of an attempt at wiping away my own tears, but I don't because I know it would be in vain. They haven't stopped streaming down since she uttered the words "that is not what I want."

"Are you sure this is what you want," she asks, trying to hide the way her voice breaks. "Because, Santana, once I walk out this door we can never go back to the way things were."

"Why are those our only options," I say firmly. I'm standing now because I'm angry at her, at myself, at life in general. "I know this is not what you want Quinn. Why are you still letting other people dictate your life?"

"You know it's not that easy for me Santana," she yells, one hand into a tight fist at her side while the other grasps even more tightly onto her bag. Thank the heavens above Kurt and Rachel had some NYADA brunch thing because this is not something I think I could've handled in hushed whispers or at a crowded train station. She rolls her eyes, frustration clearly evident in her face. "Why are you making this complicated? Everything was-"

"Was what? Fine?" I answer back defiantly, taking a stop closer. "I am not fine Quinn. THIS is not fine."

"Santana I'm sorry I don't have parents that are as accepting as yours, or that I can't adopt your 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. That is not how I work and you know that about me."

"So everything that has happened the last four months have meant nothing to you other than just sex?" I challenge, taking another deliberate step towards her.

"Yes," she says calmly, averting her eyes briefly.

"No extra feelings. You have been able to keep your emotions separate this whole time." I keep my eyes fixed on Quinr as continue to make my way towards her. I don't care if I'm making her feel uncomfortable under my scrutiny. I secretly welcome it actually, because I'm hoping it will be enough to get her to crack.

"What do you want from me Santana," she asks, her eyes finding mine. The anger has all but disappeared and there is now a pleading look of sadness, silently begging for me to drop the subject. To forget about everything that I've brought up so we can just go back to living in the illusion we created in the hotel room back in Lima.

In one swift move I take the last step towards Quinn and pull her into me by her waist. I close any distance between us and I press my lips into hers. I somehow manage to control my kiss, desperate to show her that I can be gentle and loving with her, I can be everything she deserves. She fights it for a millisecond, but then I can feel her lips meld into mine, and somewhere in my mind I hear her bag drop to the floor and her arms wrap around my neck to pull me in impossibly closer. I graze her bottom lip with my tongue before capturing that same lip with my own. Her fingers tangle into my hair and I in turn push my pelvis just a little further in to ensure there is no gap between us. She sighs heavily into my touch and my movements, which only encourages me to continue.

The next time I graze her lip with my tongue she opens her mouth ever so slightly and I take it as an opportunity to gently slide my tongue further, massaging hers with my own. She exhales into my mouth, the same way she has done hundreds of times before when we're in bed and our limbs are entwined in such a way where, if it weren't for the different tones of our skin color, you wouldn't be able to tell where one began and the other ended.

"I want you, Quinn," I whisper into her mouth when our kisses break intermittently. "I want to hold your hand in public, and text you dopey cute messages. I want to kiss you like this whenever I want, and make love to you always." I would normally hate the way my voice breaks when I voice my admissions and I would normally, most definitely, despise the way my tears expose my vulnerability, but right now I don't care. I don't give two shits and that's because I WANT her to know that somewhere along this chaotic ride it became more than spontaneous trysts and impulsive "booty calls" for me.

"I want you, Quinn," I say again, because there are no limits as to how many times I can reiterate that. I can't stop myself before the words are spilling out of my mouth uncontrollably. I can feel Quinn's tears spill onto my cheeks as we continue this dance we've created with our lips, our music is nothing more than the sounds of our rapid breathing and the tiny, almost inaudible, whimpers that are escaping from Quinn's throat. I can feel her caving, I can feel her walls slowly begin to crumble at my touch, at my kiss, and my honesty. I can see the chink in her armor and if I pull at it just a little more...

"I want you, Quinn. All of you, with no restrictions, no rules. Just you. And I know you want me too."

And just like that she's pulled away from me, and now she's backing away from me slowly with her duffel bag once again in her hand. Her eyes are cold and distant and she's wearing the icy mask that I haven't seen since our reigning times in high school. She wipes away the last of the tears on her cheeks before raising her chin ever so slightly in defiance.

"You have no idea what I want," she whispers with disdain. "Fuck you for ruining everything."

Before I can utter another word of protest she's walking out the door of our Bushwick apartment and out of my life. I crumble to the floor and in between my sobs I can hear the distant echo of her footsteps fade into nothingness.


I quickly wipe away the single tear that managed to escape my eye as soon as I hear the toilet flush. I don't know how long Rachel was in there but it was definitely long enough to relive that fan-fucking-tastic day (and I say that with the most sincere amount of sarcasm). I shake my head to compose myself and take another, to big to be considered appropriate, sip of my red wine. It is now well into the evening and Rachel now knows my entire, dramatic, pathetic love story. Much to my surprise, she sat quietly the majority of the time, only interrupting occasionally to ask a question or gasp in shock.

"Sorry," Rachel apologizes as she plops back down onto the seat next to me. "I tried to hold it as long as possible but once I break the seal there's no going back."

"Okay, thanks for that," I say with a grimace at her little over-share.

"Oh whatever, you're just as bad as I am." She reaches for her glass of wine that sits on my coffee table before turning back to me. "Okay, so then what happened?"

"What do you mean 'what happened?'"

"Well, after she basically told you to eff off. What happened after that?"

"Rach, that's it," I answer, shrugging casually. "She left and I haven't heard from her or seen her since."

"So you and Quinn have a drunken hook-up at Mr. Schue's wedding, your 'friends-with-benefits' arrangement quickly turns into something more, but she can't handle it, so she abandons ship?"

"I guess," I sigh, sinking further into the couch. I've spent the last two hours explaining how it all began, how it progressed, where it went wrong, and how it ended, and she managed to sum it all up in a quick 10-seconds. Of course I failed to include the part where I had spent a solid two hours laying on the floor, curled into the fetal position, crying quietly after Quinn had walked out the door. It wasn't until I noticed that Rachel and Kurt would be home soon that I picked myself up off the floor and headed out to roam the streets of New York until I felt remotely okay to come back to the apartment.

"What was so different about her?" I look up to meet her eyes, tilting my head in confusion. "I mean, how was she different from Brittany."

I don't know how to answer this question out loud because, truth be told, I had never really given it much thought. I loved Brittany very much, but at the same time our relationship was very high school. Our biggest dilemma was what day was a good day to go shopping or who's turn it was to be on top. My…whatever it was…with Quinn always felt like a real relationship. Adult. Mature. We would talk about books, and literature, and current events. She would respectfully challenge my ideas, and push me to think outside the box without ever making me feel any less for not pursuing college.

"I loved Brit, don't get me wrong. But with Quinn it was always different. There was always another layer underneath the surface of everything that made me feel like I wanted to…I don't know…be better." I comb my fingers through my hair as I struggle to find the words to further explain exactly what I mean. But I can't, because how does one put into words what they themselves do not understand. "She just made me want to be better."

Rachel nods her head slowly, as she takes another small sip of her wine. I don't know if this means she understands what I'm talking about, or if it's simply a polite gesture to indicate that she's heard me. "Why didn't you go after her?" Rachel asks quietly after a minute of silence.

"I don't know," I say a little louder than I intended. "And do what exactly? Continue to beg her to give me a chance?"

"Well, uhm…yeah," she says, although if she had uttered the word "duh" I'm sure it would have come out sounding exactly the same way. "If you loved her as much as you say you did, then hell yes you should've gone after her."

"No, she had made it perfectly clear that she didn't want a relationship with me," I reply, shaking my head to affirm my reasoning. "Besides, I had already tried. Santana Lopez does not grovel, and I came pretty damn close with that woman."

"Santana," Rachel gently chastises. "You loved her. There would have been no shame in fighting for her."

"It was all so ridiculous anyway," I say with a roll of my eyes. "I mean, how can someone be so destroyed over a relationship that never really started in the first place."

"Do you still love her?"

Another bullet I've been trying to dodge for nine years. Of course I still love her, I think about her everyday. Almost everything reminds me of her, or of the times we spent together, and no matter how hard I try to fight it she's there. She was very much present when I made the decision to pursue my degree in college, and when Rachel and I made the decision to move to L.A. And don't even get me started on any of the failed relationships I attempted after her. She fucking ruined me for everyone else. But I can't tell Rachel that, especially when I spend half the time trying to deny it myself. So I do what any rational person does when asked an ucomfortable question. I lied.

"No, I've moved on." It's better than telling Rachel that I'm still so pathetically in love with my not-even-ex-girlfriend whom I can't seem to shake. I know if I were to admit that to her she would do everything in her power to try and stage some awkward, over the top reunion. Rachel Berry may think she is all sorts of smooth, but in actuality she's the complete antithesis of anything that remotely resembles that. She studies me for a few seconds, I suppose in an attempt to gauge whether or not I'm being honest with her, so I throw her a little bone to appease her. "But I do miss her though."

"As in…?" she asks suspiciously, quirking an eyebrow in my direction.

"As in I miss my friend," I sigh. At least this particular admission is the truth. I do miss my friend. In between all the sexual tension and other bullshit that went on between us we really had forged a new foundation of friendship. I often wondered how it could be so different from when we were in high school and the answer was really quite simple. In high school we were always competing to outdo the other one, from grades to even the boys we dated. Our insane obsession with being the best at whatever often trickled into our friendship, causing this residual underlying strain to exist between us. Both of us were too stubborn and proud to acknowledge the other's strengths and it was those same characteristics that prevented us from ever backing down. It was exhausting always trying to compete with each other.

But after Mr. Schue's almost wedding, and after Quinn and I started spending more time together, it was becoming more and more obvious that that compulsive desire to best one another had disappeared. It was now replaced with a real friendship filled with encouragement, and support, and a carefree- spirit, which allowed us to just genuinely enjoy each other's company. There was no psycho cheerleading coach we needed to impress, or boy-toy we were trying to steal from the other, or student body we were trying to intimidate. Just Santana and Quinn.

"Rach, if you knew about Quinn and I, why is it that you never brought it up?" I ask, as I walk over to the kitchen to grab two glasses of water. We have been drinking for a while now, and although we've only had one bottle of wine between the two us, I know Rachel is feeling a little more tipsy then she'd ever care to admit. She's still such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, I figure it's because she is so tiny in stature.

"I figured if you wanted to talk about it you would have said something," she answers matter-of-factly.

"That's crap, Berry. Every other person I brought back to the loft always brought about it a game of twenty one questions from you," I say, pointing my finger at her accusingly. "If anything, the situation with Quinn would have brought on the interrogator beast ten fold."

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you just called me a beast and accuse me of being nosy all in one sentence. And, like I said before, if you wanted to talk about it you would have."

"Spill, Thumbelina."

"You can't intimidate me anymore, Santana. I already know just how nice you actually can be, so save your muscle power for the weak," she says calmly. I immediately scowl and lean back into the couch, crossing my arms petulantly across my chest. "But in all seriousness, I really didn't ask about it because I truly believed you didn't want to talk about it. At that time our budding friendship was just beginning to develop, so it was still at a very fragile state. I wasn't about to risk all the progress we had made just because I was curious about your most recent sexcapade." Even though it's endearing how concerned Rachel was about preserving our newfound relationship, I still can't resist the urge to roll my eyes and shake my head at her use of the word "sexcapade."

"How can you be so sure that I didn't want to talk about it?" She is one hundred percent accurate in stating the fact that I didn't want to talk about it, but I ask anyway just because curiosity gets the best of me.

"Because every time you brought someone home you would always, without fail, torture Kurt and I with some sort of an explanation as to how you were a Godsend in bed, and then you would proceed to rate your encounter on a scale from 'may as well have slept alone to it's a miracle I can even walk today.'" I can't help but grimace at that memory, because as witty as I was back in the day, there's no denying how single-minded and crude I was. "I mean, honestly Santana, it was nauseating."

"So? That still doesn't explain why you didn't ask about Quinn," I say right away to avoid having to apologize to Rachel for putting her through that.

"Well, your little sessions of TMI ceased once Quinn started coming around. So did the women. All of a sudden you weren't interested in anyone else, or casual flings. You became equally content spending an evening at home Facetiming with Quinn," Rachel explains, quickly glancing at me. I can see the little hint of hesitancy in her face before she continues. I guess I can't really blame her since I haven't really been the most approachable when it comes to this particularly subject. "After the first time I…uhm…heard you and Quinn, I waited for the inevitable story of self-appraisal but it never came. It makes sense that you didn't though, since evidently Quinn wanted to keep the entire thing under wraps."

"Yeah, she did," I say, smiling gently to indicate no hard feelings in her deduction. "But it was more than that. For whatever reason I really wanted to respect our privacy when it came to that. With Quinn it was never about a prize, or bragging rights. It was so much more than that, and I guess I just wanted to save that for myself."

She nods quietly, returning my smile and a comfortable silence falls between us, leaving us each to our own thoughts. It's strange discussing this topic out in the open. Up until now, the only conversations I've had about that episode in my life had all been in the privacy of my own head. In the beginning it was enough to drive me insane, the constant back and forth, the second-guessing, the self-loathing, the Quinn-loathing. Should I go after her? Was I in the wrong? No, fuck that, she messed it up, you're pathetic Santana, get over it. It plagued my mind for a very long time. Now, it's not as constant as it was after the "break-up" first initially happened. Every once in a while I still get fleeting moments of sadness and anger, and all those other depressing thoughts about it, but I've learned to live with it. It's kind of like when someone has this chronic pain and there's nothing that can be done to rid themselves of it, but rather it's just now a part of them. Something they've learned to live with. Well, Quinn is my chronic pain. Shit, I'm so pathetic.

"So, are you nervous to see her?" Rachel asks, breaking my train of depressing thoughts.

"Nah, it's cool," I shrug, and for a brief second I almost believe it myself. "I mean, I guess it'll be a little weird, you know? Since I haven't seen her in like, what, nine years? Sure, I guess I'm a little curious about what she's been up to, or you know, if she still looks the same and stuff. And of course there's the fact that the last time we were in the same room together it was this intense combination of either wanting to rip each other's clothes off or slap the hell out of each other. So yeah, there's that. And am I curious as to whether or not she's in a relationship now, or if she finally married America's boy next door slash successful lawyer and has 2.4 kids and lives in the Eutopia of suburbia? Yeah, of course I am, but who isn't, right?"

I glance briefly at Rachel who is now nodding slowly as I continue to mindlessly blather on. "I wonder if she's nervous to see me. Probably not, 'cause you know, she hasn't made any kind of an attempt to contact me. So it's probably safe to assume that I'm the furthest thing from her mind. But that's cool, because I'm not nervous to see her. I mean, I guess I should be a little nervous, but I'm not. I'm totally not."

I finally stop the incessant pacing that I didn't even realize I started and turn to regard Rachel who is now sitting on the couch, looking at me, speechless with both eyebrows raised so high they've practically reached her hair line. I have now been rambling on for God knows how long, which Rachel and I both know is a telltale sign of my nervousness. I've given myself away, and there is no doubt in my mind that Rachel will let it go.

"You're nervous. And it's cute," she says in a tone that's far too condescending for my liking. "And I want to help you. We need a plan."

"A plan? What're you talking about?"

"We are going to make you look hotter than you've ever looked before."

"Uhm, how about no," I sigh rubbing my hands over my eyes.

"We'll have a full on primping and pampering day," Rachel continues to herself. "My treat of course."

"I stand firm at no."

"We'll have to keep your attendance top secret in order to achieve the full effect of surprise." She is now completely ignoring me.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"We'll get your hair done, and buy you the hottest dress."

"Or I can just talk and talk and you can continue to ignore me."

"Killer shoes that'll accentuate your killer calves."

"Rachel…"

"And your nails. We've got to do something about those nails, because from what I understand long nails are frowned upon in the lesbian community."

"Rachel!" She finally stops her scheming and acknowledges my presence for the first time since the wheels in her head began spinning, beaming from ear to ear.

"She's going to wish she never left."

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"Oh please, I know you're not one to turn down a free day at the spa and salon so just agree that this is a battle you have no chance it winning," she dismisses, completely disregarding all my pleas of protest. "It'll save you a lot of time."

"Fine," I surrender, sinking back into the couch next to her. "But no more wine for you. You get extra bossy when you're drunk."

"I am not drunk," she exclaims, disgusted at my accusation, but her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes betray her.

"Maybe not yet, but you're getting pretty damn close," I respond as I pull the glass of wine from her hand.

"Okay, fine," she pouts.

"How about we put in a movie, and drink a lot of water before I send you on your merry way. You have an early morning tomorrow, and I can't have my number one client looking like a hot mess for Nylon Mag."

"Fair enough, but only if we can watch Lés Mis."

"Will it get you to shut your trap and forget about your little plan?"

"Yes," she answers firmly, nodding once. "For now."

I groan, but throw my hands up in defeat. Lés Mis is a relatively long movie, and we need the extra time to sober up my scheming little friend, plus I'm about one hundred percent sure I'll be asleep before Fantine falls into eternal slumber anyway. Rachel squeals in excitement and rushes to my entertainment center to pluck out the movie from its shelf.

"Hey, Rach," I say, drawing her attention from the blu-ray player for a second. "Thanks. You know, for not judging me and stuff. And I'm sorry I kept it from you for so long. It's nice to know I have someone to talk to about it."

She looks down at the movie in her hands, smiling bashfully to herself. It's adorable how shy she gets when I pay her a compliment or show her any type of gratitude. We've been genuine friends for so long now, but it still catches her by surprise whenever I show any kind of compassion towards her. It kills me actually, because it's always a blatant reminder as to how much I truly was a bitch to her in high school. Even though she always dismisses my apologies for my high school behavior and insists that it's all water under the bridge, I still can't ignore the tinge of remorse that sits heavy on my conscience.

She doesn't say anything, because what else is there to say. She nods silently before returning to the electronics in front of her and I grab the blanket from the back of the couch just as the movie begins to play.