Fifth Floor Walk-Up
"My Saving Grace"
...
These days, I sometimes wonder if meeting her was more a curse than a salvation. Looking at her swollen, bandaged face, my first instinct is to let anger course through me. Today, though, I'll let my memories take me to the days when she was my saving grace.
...
Thanking her, really thanking her, wasn't easy. My words alone weren't enough, so those last few utterances whispered over my shoulder that night wouldn't suffice.
That weekend I returned to the apartment to clean up. During the week, with work and the fear of returning home, I couldn't manage to make my way back to Brooklyn. After almost a week of crashing with the boys, I feared more that I had overstayed my welcome.
Early Saturday morning, I collected my belongings, left a note, and slipped out the door and onto a near-empty train to Brooklyn. My heart thudded as I unlocked the door. Kurt had called a clean-up crew on Wednesday, after the investigation was complete, to take care of the shattered glass and general disarray. While my belongings were back in place, the apartment was somehow still out of place. Leaving the door wide open, I walked directly over to the window and mounted the windowsill to push down hard, securing the lock once again. If need be, I wanted the door open for an easy escape. I didn't want the deadbolt to be my undoing - trapping me in my nightmare.
"Hello?" The wind knocked out of me and I fell from the windowsill onto the hardwood floor. Footsteps caved in on me. Unfamiliar white tennis shoes, lean tanned legs, spandex shorts, a strong arm flexing toward me.
"Santana?" I looked up at her from the floor, playing the role of a damsel in distress. "You scared me."
"Your door was open. I was about to get my gun, but I saw your bag on the floor." The softness of her features from the previous night had disappeared.
"Oh. I just... I didn't... I can't explain it." I pushed myself off the floor. At eye-level, her face was flushed, a thin elastic headband held back stray strands of sweaty black hair that might have matted onto her face. Lean muscles flexed and rippled through her spandex at every move.
My mouth was dry and slightly ajar. I quickly snapped it shut and looked up into her eyes. "I need to repay you." It rushed out of my mouth all at once. My grace and tact had disappeared. I had been planning a better way of saying that. What was it again? I struggled inside my mind for a moment, attempting to recall the plan. I was supposed to leave a note on her door, not blurt it all out.
"Repay me for what?" Her brow wrinkled in confusion.
"For helping me. For saving me." I could feel my cheeks heating up. "Gosh darnit. I forgot what I wanted to say. It's just, if you hadn't been here, I don't know what I would have done. Saying thank you isn't enough. Please let me repay you in some way." I felt tears coming on but I couldn't figure out why. I so desperately wanted to connect, for her to say yes.
"Rachel, I'm a police officer, it's part of my job. You don't have to repay me." No connection. Tears blurred my vision. Sobs wracked through me. I found myself sitting pathetically on my bed, hands covering my face. I cried even harder when I thought about how often she'd seen me cry.
"No, no, don't cry." Her voice had softened again. I felt warm skin on my own, trailing from my forearm to my bicep and back. My eyes fluttered shut. "It's ok, you can repay me. Will that make it better?"
"I'm sorry," I said haltingly, as I heaved through the sobs. "It's something I just need to do because there's no other way for me to repay you. I'll never be able to save you like that."
Her voice shrunk to a whisper. "It's ok. I don't need saving." Her eyes met mine, soft again. "You can repay me."
Looking up at her from the bed, I was able to see her whole figure again. "Maybe I can start to repay you by taking your shopping for new workout clothes?" I smirked through the tears.
One eyebrow raised, then she smirked back at me. "Are you making fun of me?" She looked down at the spandex unitard and tennis shoes, then back into my eyes. "This is my rowing outfit. All rowers wear these."
"Even out on the street?" I reached a hand up and plucked at the flimsy material.
"I had a t-shirt on over top, but I was too sweaty. Maybe I won't let you repay me after all, if you're gonna make fun of me." Her bottom lip was between her teeth, fighting off a smile.
"Sorry. Sorry. I have no right to insult you. You row? Like the long boats that have a bunch of oars?"
"Yeah. Well I used to do the long boats with a bunch of oars - quad scull, actually. But I started single scull a few years ago. That means I just row the boat on my own."
"Oh. So that's where you get those muscles from." My face flushed. Seriously, what happened to my tact?
"Yeah I guess. I workout at the station gym, too." Her face was flushed, too, but I couldn't tell if was as a result of my sexual harassment or whether it remained from her workout.
I took a moment to fight off the redness in my face. She bounced nervously from toe to toe in front of me, surveying my room.
My voice was unsteady when it reached my ears. "Can I cook you dinner?"
"Tonight?" I wasn't sure, but her voice sounded unsteady as well.
"If you're free, yes. I know there are lots of bad guys that you need to catch."
There was a long pause. I looked away, unwilling to see her face when she turned me down.
"The bad guys aren't my responsibility tonight. Sure, let's do it. I'll be over at..."
"Eight?"
"Eight."
I looked down at my fingers, gripping and playing with each other, keeping the nerves at bay. "Do you have any dietary restrictions I should be aware of? I grew up in a kosher and vegan household, so I'm afraid you'll have to put up with that, but I'm happy to meet any of your needs."
Her mouth twisted up to the side in a half-smile. "No, Rachel. I'll eat whatever you put in front of me. You don't have to do this, you know?"
I met her eyes and nearly forgot what she was saying. "No. No, I do."
For the rest of the day, I was too busy to remember to fear the loneliness of my apartment. My heart pounded a mile a minute, my feet danced across the floor, and my hands busily searched for the next task. Soft, warm brown eyes rested on the backs of my eyelids every time I closed my eyes. In some moments, I found myself closing them on purpose to find her eyes looking back at me.
At six, I diced the vegetables for the stir-fry. My hands shook nervously.
At seven, I pulled on about nine different outfits, until I settled on a blue floral print dress with a yellow cardigan and red ballet flats.
At eight, a light knock echoed into my room.
I peered through the peephole to study her unabashedly for a moment. Her hair was pulled back into a slick ponytail, parted on the side. She wore a faded blue, collared men's shirt, arms rolled up to the elbow, showing off her toned forearms. My stomach sank and I felt a warmth roll through my body.
"Hi," my voice shook as I greeted her.
"Hi," her voice definitely shook, too. She had a bottle of wine and a bottle still encased in its brown paper grocery bag in her hand. She pushed the wine bottle into my hand. "I brought something for us to drink."
"Thank you. You look very nice."
"Thanks. You look...you look nice, too. I brought over some whiskey, too. Do you drink whiskey?" She was definitely nervous. Her eyes darted to the floor, then to my feet, to my eyes, and back to the floor. I wanted to reach over and run my hands up her arms, to whisper in her ear that there was no need to be nervous, but maybe I should have been more nervous myself.
"Never tried it. I'm usually more of a white wine spritzer kind of girl. Pour us some and we'll toast." I pulled two glasses from the cabinet and handed them to her. She poured a little more than a shot's worth and passed it to me. The smell burned my nostrils and churned my stomach. That smell will forever churn my stomach now, for many reasons.
"To..." Her hand shook as she raised the glass.
"To new friends." I looked into her eyes as we clinked glasses. She smiled for the first time that night. Her shoulders sank back and her eyes met mine.
Whiskey is not my drink of choice. Considering I drank "Peach Breez" wine coolers (no, no "e" on the Breeze") all the way through college, it didn't come as much of a surprise. I choked it back, sputtering and coughing as I inhaled. Tears welled in my eyes.
A throaty laugh reached my ears as she took down her own and poured another, this time just for herself.
But the whiskey did the trick for both of us. A warm fuzziness took over my senses. I was just a little more handsy, just a little more sultry, and maybe just a little more tactless. Santana appeared to have loosened as well. When not running up my legs and over my chest, her eyes met mine with that softness I'd quickly grown to adore. Her hands steadied, were confident even, in their movements. She poured two glasses of wine and grazed my fingers as she passed me a glass. Heat burst through my fingertips and straight through my stomach, then settled in for the night just below.
Dinner was a muted affair. Glasses clinking, soft voices, a crooked smile when our eyes met. I talked through most of the meal. The conversation started with vegan cuisine and ended with tales of my exploits with Kurt over the past two years.
She poured the final glass of wine for me and a post-dinner whiskey for herself and we retired to the couch. I flipped my ballet slippers off and, in one of my more tactless moments, pushed my feet into her lap.
She smiled and raised an eyebrow. A beautiful eyebrow. I never thought to describe eyebrows as beautiful before her. "I guess you're deserving of a foot rub, dinner was surprisingly good."
"'Surprisingly?' You didn't think I could cook?" I cracked a smile too as I looked up at her from the end of the couch. She had set her glass on the side table and used both hands on my right foot, rubbing deliciously. My eyelids drooped and the heat that had settled in earlier became more intense. "I did grow up with two gay dads. And my best friends are gay."
"Being gay means you can cook? Shit, I missed the boat." That settled that. She'd probably caused many a girl to feel those below-the-belt feelings I was struggling with now. Even straight, or semi-straight girls.
"Well, being a gay man, I guess, or...well no that's not right...the progeny of gay men," I fumbled. Truth be told, I was still wrapped up in her confession. I wondered if now was the time to confess my occasional leanings, as well.
"Gotcha." She broke eye contact to look at my feet. I was surprised at how intimately connected I felt at that moment, her fingers working my soles. I said a silent prayer thanking G-d that I'd gotten a pedicure earlier in the week with Kurt. "So you have two dads?"
"Yeah, I guess that's how I got this obsession with Broadway."
"Tell me what you do. I mean, I listen. I know that you are in an off-Broadway show and you're rehearsing, but you never told me more than that."
"Well, it's a long story. It starts with my move to Manhattan a few years ago. Kurt had been here for a few years and offered to let me stay in his two-bedroom in the East Village. That offer turned into a couple of years. Kurt was fairly successful on Broadway. I mean, relatively speaking. He'd had a few minor speaking roles, but mostly chorus stuff. Still, on Broadway, that's a pretty amazing feat. When I moved here, I started auditioning, but I couldn't break through. I didn't get a single callback my first year here. I picked up a job at a coffee shop to help Kurt pay the bills. I almost gave up, but he got me a few more auditions and I managed to get some minor off-Broadway work, though I did have to keep up with the coffee shop. A chorus job off-Broadway pays next to nothing. About two months ago, I got a call from a producer I'd worked with on one of my shows. He got me an audition for the lead role. I went in, auditioned, got called back, did another reading and performance, and now I'm lead." The wine was talking. Too much. "What about you? I know how you got those muscles but how'd you get into being a police officer?"
Her eyes turned away, back to my feet. "Long story." The whiskey was not talking.
I leaned forward and ran my hand down her arm, over to the exposed skin of her forearm. She turned back to me, licking her lips. My heart skipped. "Tell me something about you. I just talked your ear off."
"Some other time I'll tell you how I got into it. Guess I'll tell you what I do."
I felt the air slowly escaping my lungs. All I could imagine was Sergeant Lopez in a tight blue uniform shirt, gun holstered at her side, tone restrained and cool, ordering men around. Sergeant Lopez, a trickle of sweat running down her brow as she sped after a criminal. Sergeant Lopez...
"You want me to tell you?"
"Sorry," I felt my cheeks flush and a smile creep onto my face. "Yes, more than anything."
"Well, I work the midday into early night. I'll usually go in around one or so and get a workout in. Shift starts at two. Sit in on a briefing meeting with other sergeants and a fewer higher officers. Brief my squad. Hit the streets."
"Do you wear that uniform?" Seriously, the wine needed to stop talking.
She smiled. Perfect teeth framed by full lips. "Yeah."
"What kinds of things do you do when you 'hit the street'?"
"Well, we have to do a few runs through certain neighborhoods, to make our presence felt. Usually have to respond to calls - domestics and disorderlies mainly."
"Have you ever shot your gun?" I regretted those words as soon as they'd come out of my mouth. The drop in her expression made me regret them even more.
"Yes."
I didn't trust myself to say more. My mouth firmly shut, we sat in silence for a few minutes. Her hands continued to work my feet, but occasionally ran up to my calves and pressed firmly, working their way back down. The heat intensified. I needed a buffer, some way to stop myself (or the wine) from uttering more ridiculous come-ons or asking more prying questions. I swiftly pulled my feet back and tiptoed to my bedside table, grabbing the laptop out of my bag.
"Movie?"
"Sure." She looked so adorable from afar. I'd been too focused on the minute and hadn't taken all of her in. Her white pants brought out the tan on her feet. The blue shirt fit tightly, allowing me to wonder what I'd find if I popped open a button or two. The collar framed her face perfectly. Though she'd caught me staring, the whiskey had dulled her reaction time. It seemed that was the only thing it had dulled.
I set the laptop on the coffeetable, just next to where her feet stretched out. I tucked my feet beneath me and curled into the side of the couch.
"C'mere." I turned and looked at her for what felt like a whole minute. Maybe the whiskey had dulled more than her reaction time. She'd pulled a pillow over top of her lap and patted it. I crawled across the couch and rested my head on the pillow. Within seconds, her fingertips delicately ran through my hair and massaged my scalp. I don't even remember the first scene of the movie.
Rachel. Rach. Rach.
The credits were running. Santana's eyes were glazed. A strong smell of alcohol whispered off her breath.
"Movie's over."
I looked up at her and blinked a few more times, trying to shake the sleep from my eyes. I was drunk, too.
"Get you to bed. C'mon."
Groggily, I sat up, rubbing my fists over my eyes. She stood and headed toward my bed. My eyes jolted open.
"Just want to make sure this is..." Her voice sounded strained. I followed her and saw her pushing at the fire escape window, double-checking the locks.
She crossed back in front of me to examine the locks on the front door. "Make sure that you lock both of these after I leave. Be right across the hall if you need anything."
Before she could say anything else, I threw my arms around her shoulders and buried my head in the crook of her neck. "Thank you," I whispered against her hot skin. My lips were just millimeters from placing a soft kiss on her pulse point.
Her arms wrapped tightly around me and I could feel her breath in my hair. "Thank you."
I could feel her pulling back. I ran my arms along her back, then shoulders, biceps, and forearms. The heat intensified. "Goodnight, Santana." I needed for her to go.
"Goodnight, Rachel."
In bed, I rolled to my back. The heat that had built through the night had reached its boiling point. I closed my eyes and imagined her strong arms on either side of me, holding herself up. I imagined her face hovering above mine. Soft eyes full of want. Lips moist and on the attack. I imagined her body pressing into mine. My body pushing up to greet hers. Legs wrapping around the small of her back to hold her prone body tight to my own. Everything but her eyes faded away. Soft brown eyes captured me at my most vulnerable and coaxed me into release.
Turning over, I was faced with the fire escape window. In that instant, the buzz of the alcohol faded and my heart sped uncomfortably. I finally found sleep at five in the morning.
