I feel kinda bad for making you re-read this, but stick with this till the end of this chapter at least, pleeasseeee. Next chapter is either gonna be hella fun or extremely torturous to write.
Over the next few days, people around Santana Lopez began to notice certain…behavioral changes in the girl. A few thought that she may have been having a bad week, others thought she were on her period (hah! If she actually were, she'd fire them without so much as a second thought). Basically, she became bitchier than usual (which, amazingly, was possible) and sometimes would just kind of space out for a few moments. Weird, considering that when she's recording, she's recording whole-heartedly, she's said once in an interview that music was one of the greatest passions in her life, and she probably couldn't live without it. That answer hadn't been written for her, she hadn't practiced it in front of her publicist beforehand, it was the truth. Santana loved the constant attention, the fans, the money, everything, she really really did, but at the end of the day, she does have God-given talent. She's not just another pretty face with a great body lip-syncing to autotune, she's the real deal.
That's why eyebrows started to raise when the recording sounded pitchy and hollow. If it were one day in the studio, no one would've even bothered to care. Artists all have their off days, nobody's perfect, but they would all come back the following day, determined to get it right on the first go, and most of the time, they'd do exactly that. Unfortunately for Santana, this off day turned into an off week, and after the 7 longest days of her life, Quinn and Noah Puckerman (her producer) felt the need to have a little sit down with her. She had shrugged and agreed to 'a friendly chat' with the two at a fancy bar where the staff would keep their mouths shut and the paparazzi at bay. To be honest, she'd been kind of...submissive (well, not submissive, but definitely easier to work with). Another thing that was different about her. Before her 18th birthday party, she'd been feisty, even a little defiant at times (which basically means that she'd throw tantrums and act like a spoiled brat if she didn't get her way), just because she knew she could, because she knew that any other label would love to have her.
The hotel bar was still very much the way it had been the last time she'd visited. This was a place where mainly wealthy, powerful businessmen came to have a cigar or a glass of whisky away from work. Or, more likely, meet up with escorts. The bartender and staff in general knew Santana and treated her well (duh, they knew who she was, after all. More importantly, however, they knew very well just how easy it'd be for her to make them become unemployed). The drinks were made especially for her, and she's pretty sure management has a bartender reserved just for her visits, since every time she's been here, she'd been served by the same cute guy. Tall, atheletic build and a face that looked as though it belonged in a catalogue for Abercrombie and Fitch, not exactly her type (and who'd hook up with the barkeep anyway?) but the dude made some delicious cocktails, so he'd do.
The trio were immediately lead to the secluded VIP area, and after ordering drinks, got straight down to business.
"Santana," Puck started, somewhat nervously. He did know her reputation after all, and nobody would want to create a scene in a public place like this. The staff may be incredibly well trained in keeping their mouths shut, but who could be able to resist leaking a scandal? One wrong move, Santana leaves for another label, and he'd be dead meat, (Puck was good at what he did, a definite up and coming producer, but he wasn't THAT good) "you seemed kinda…off the past few days. Are you okay at all or…"
Quinn rolled her eyes, sometimes you just had to treat teenagers for what they were. Teenagers. "Your recordings this week have sucked. Wanna tell me why?"
Santana shrugged, she just couldn't stop thinking about all the possibilities of meeting with Brittany again. She wanted to snap at Quinn and tell her that this was actually all her fault. If she hadn't been given that fateful note with those particular numbers on it, she'd still be fine, living the high life like she'd always wanted.
Sensing something was on the girl's mind, Quinn promptly turned to Puck and said in that sweet but firm tone of hers, "Could you give us a minute?"
The young producer looked as if he'd just found out he passed 12th grade math, eager to escape the weird tension in the room. If there was one thing he knew for sure about women, it's that you do not mess with their shit.
Once Puck left, Quinn turned back to Santana, "Is it…is it Blaine?" She asked, concern etched over her face, and Santana almost laughed at that, because it's so incredibly far off the mark. Usually, the blonde woman could read her pretty well, but not this time, clearly.
"No, Quinn, it's not Blaine. He's fine." She assured her manager.
"Well then what's up?" Oh God, she must've been really good at hiding it, because there's actual, genuine curiosity in Quinn's voice.
"Nothing...I'm just...having a bad week, I guess." A lie. An obvious lie that anyone would've been able to pick up.
Quinn's eyes hardened, "Grammy nominations are next week, Santana. Now's not a good time for drama. You either tell me and we can fix this together before the press even get a scent of this, OR you can lie to my face, and when the tabloids bury you alive, you can regret not trusting me for the rest of your miserable life, and when people look at you a few years from now, they'd see you as nothing more than has been. Your choice."
Santana's eyes went wide with surprise, she'd never been spoken to like, well, like that before. Always been pampered and treated like royalty. The thought of her being a washed up Hollywood D-lister sometime in the near future had never once crossed her mind. But it was true though, once you're on top of the world, there was no other way but down. No. She had worked too fucking hard to ever let herself fall. Santana may only be 18 years of age, a spoiled brat, a bitch to almost everyone she worked with, but she was tough as nails.
"It's Brittany."
It was Quinn's turn to almost laugh, clearly not anticipating that, "what's up? Have you called her yet? I mean, she still remembers you, right?"
Santana shook her head, "No, I haven't called her yet, I dunno if I should. What if-"
"You're kidding me. God, it's just a number, I thought you'd jump at the chance to talk to her –"Quinn reached inside her pocket and fished out her mobile phone – "look, just call her ok? And if she rejects you, I'll be here to hold your hand." It's said in a mocking tone, and Santana honestly couldn't believe it. Either Quinn was half blind or she was an expert at keeping a poker face.
When she finally finishes dialing the digits (she intentionally draws the simple process out, the last few moments before the rest of her whole world would change. She could feel it in her gut, after this, things would be different. Very different), it's the longest seconds of her life.
When the other end picked up, her heart stopped, and with one single word, it began beating again.
"Hello?" Came the voice from the other end.
"H-hi, um, Brittany?" If it weren't for Quinn's amused stare, Santana probably would've hung up right then and there. Damn, she was nervous. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.
"Yeah, who is this?"
"This is…um, this is…" Santana was fumbling over her words like nobody's business, she had the words on the tip of her tongue, but they just refused to come out like she wanted them to. This was the same girl who regularly performed in front of millions and appeared on posters, billboards, magazine covers, she signed hundreds of autographs and took God knows how many pictures with her fans everyday, all with complete grace and confidence. Yep, same girl.
Quinn rolled her eyes and decided to take matters into her own hands, snatching the mobile device away and spoke in a clear and firm tone, "Hi, this is Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez' manager. She wants to meet with you tomorrow. Is that okay?"
Santana was practically fuming, Quinn had zero right to interrupt a perfectly private conversation of hers. That was completely unprofessional and frankly, not very nice. As Santana was about to snatch the phone back (and possibly demote Quinn, into what? No idea, but she was definitely gonna do something), the blonde's expression turned into an accomplished smile as she nodded. "Yes, tomorrow, at around 8?" Quinn gave Brittany the address of the bar Santana usually went to, and then quickly added, "she says she misses you a lot."
That was it. She was gonna make sure Quinn's death looked like an accident and nobody would ever find her corpse. But at least Santana would have mercy and let the blonde finish the phonecall, which, no, Santana was definitely NOT straining her ears to try and hear what was being said on the other side.
"Great, see you then." With that, Quinn flipped her phone shut and slipped it back into her pocket. "You," she said, pointing at Santana, a satisfied smirk on her face, "are welcome."
"Whatever, I could fire you for invading my privacy." She deadpanned.
Quinn placed a hand over her heart, mocking fear, mouthing 'oohh, I'm scared' (or something similarly sounding and no doubt equally annoying) as she strolled out of the room, leaving a slightly gobsmacked Santana behind. That little bit-
Santana twirled the straw around her drink, needing something to get her mind off of the girl. Brittany was 1 minute and 25 seconds late, and counting. Damnit, no, ok, from now she wasn't gonna think about Brit- Nope. Will not even think her name, when she comes, Santana needed to be cool and not look like a nervous wreck. Not look like she'd been anxiously awaiting yet at the same time utterly dreading that moment. Not look like she'd dialed up her personal stylist and did the once deemed impossible task of getting him sick of picking out clothes. Nope, cool, calm and collected all the way. No biggie, right? She was an international superstar, meeting up with an old friend should be no problem, if anything, Brittany should be the one with butterflies in her stomach. Shit. That's what the fluttering was, wasn't it?
"Miss Lopez...miss Lopez!" The bartender's voice almost made her jump in surprise, "are you okay?" She followed his gaze down to her glass, her straw looked like it'd been to hell and back.
"I'm fine," She snapped.
Ok, so maybe Santana was a liiitttleee bit nervous.
"Santana?" A hand suddenly touched her shoulder. She turned around, anger boiling on her tongue. That's when the world stopped. Or maybe just her heart. "Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," Santana barely managed to breathe out. Her mind having gone completely blank. Brittany was very much the same, yet so thoroughly different. She still had the bluest pair of eyes, the same pair that was etched into Santana's mind ever since the first day they met. Her (still) blonde hair had grown out, tied into a messy ponytail that suggested she had been in a hurry. She still had that guileless, carefree smile from ten years ago, when they'd spend all their days- No. Santana did not want to delve into the past. That was all ancient history.
For a few moments, the two girls just stayed where they were. Neither wanted to move, afraid that they'd break this weird...spell thing that they were both under. They just took each other in with their eyes.
"Columbia?" Wow. "As in Columbia University?" The sweatshirt the blonde girl had on had the letters printed on them. Was this the same girl she'd known 10 years ago?
Brittany nodded with a smile, "I'm a freshman."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks."
It's awkward. There's this barrier between them now, this unspoken, invisible barrier. The fact that the girl who'd had trouble distinguishing her rights from lefts was now attending one of the best universities in the world and the girl who was afraid to sing even in front of her family was now a global phenomenon just reminded them both of how much things have changed. They were practically strangers now. Santana couldn't help but think that this had pretty much been Brittany's fault. Who'd have thunk it? That ten years later, they'd be here. Had someone told Santana that this was going to happen, she'd probably have laughed in their face, because a) alcohol was disgusting (their parents gave them both a sip of wine once and they'd instantly hated the pungent taste of it) and b) they would've never separated in the first place. Best friends forever. They'd pinky promised.
"Well, sit down." Santana motioned to the stool next to her own.
Brittany complied and gave the bartender her order. Lemonade.
Santana chuckled, "Don't worry, we can drink here. Have whatever you want, it's my treat."
"You hated alcohol," The blonde said quietly.
"Yeah, well, that was ten years ago, Brittany." Santana was trying her hardest to sound cold and apathetic, but she still hated the fact that they could no longer use their nicknames. Granted, the nicknames were just shortened version of their first names. But still, it was one of the things only they did together.
"I'm sorry for not showing up that day, my dad-"
Santana waved her away, "No, I'm sure you had your reasons. It's fine, it's ten years ago." God, WHAT THE FUCK WAS SHE SAYING? It certainly was NOT fine. Truth was, she didn't want to hear it, she didn't want to hear some excuse as to why Brittany had more or less abandoned her for whatever thing she was going to say about her dad. OK, that was harsh, but that was what it felt like.
"I've missed you everyday since."
Santana had to bite down a 'what? You never thought to pick up the damn phone and give me a call?'. After all, she no longer cared about the past, right?
Almost as if Brittany read her mind (guess some things never change), she continued, "I figured you wouldn't want to talk to me."
Santana stood up abruptly, looked at the non-existent watch on her wrist and said, "Look, I gotta go. I'm sorry." She couldn't stand it anymore, she thought she could handle seeing Brittany again, but something in her mind just clicked, and she felt as if all the breath was sucked out of her lungs.
Brittany's eyes widened, almost with panic. "What? Where? Please don't go." She reached out and grabbed the other girl's arm. When both their eyes shot down to the contact, she immediately let go.
Santana looked down at the spot where Brittany just touched her. It burned.
The two girls stood there, frozen, feet rooted to the ground. They couldn't move, or rather, they couldn't will themselves to move.
That's when Brittany moved forward. She leaned in and- (give yourselves a few moments to calm down, dear readers) - touched her lips to Santana's.
It's so perfect Santana could've cried. She's kissed a few very VERY lucky girls before (duh, she had to make sure she was a lesbian, and what better way to have done that than to make out with random chicks?) but none of them could even begin to compare to Brittany.
Readers, have you ever...I don't know, ever had the pleasure of kissing someone, and fireworks go off in your mind. Everything else just fades away, it felt like the two of you were the only people left on this Earth and you knew. You just knew that this was the very person you were meant to kiss for the rest of your lives?
Well, the kiss these two shared was exactly like that. Except. Not really.
To anyone else looking in, the height difference was...weird. And around them, a few people choked on their drinks, even the bartender was kinda staring.
But enough of this narrator ruining the moment. The two kissed as if they'd been lovers forever. Their hearts pounding in their ears as they savored the moment. Every part of Santana's brain was screaming at her desperately to stop, stop before things got out of hand. Stop before someone caught them. Stop before she fell in love (with just one kiss? Damn, Brittany's an excellent kisser).
Somewhere outside the hotel bar, a photographer was salivating over his potential big break. No, no, not potential. No magazine or tabloid would turn him down now, no one would be able to turn this down. It was almost too good to be true. He almost thought was dreaming, but no, the bright flashing of his digital camera told him that he, most certainly, was not dreaming.