Lucky it was Brittany's turn to drive them today, because after Coach yelled at Santana during practice, Santana disappeared behind her eyes and she hasn't really come back out from there since.
Brittany keeps checking her in the rearview mirror, but Santana doesn't say anything. She just sits, glossy and listless, in the passenger's seat, worrying her hands in her lap, her forehead pressed against her window, while Brittany steers the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Her breath fogs the glass every time she exhales, leaving a round patch of gray condensation by her lips, one translucent, wetter ring surrounded by a thicker, darker outer circle. She scrunches her brow tight, but her jaw hangs slack.
She looks like she just lost every game in the world.
"Baby," Brittany pouts, reaching over the console to tease Santana's hands apart and take the left one in her own, because, god. "Your face."
"My what?" Santana says absently, staring up at Brittany in the mirror. Brittany stares back, but only for a second. She has to pay attention to the traffic.
"Your lips and eyes and cheeks look heartbroken," Brittany clarifies, exaggerating her pout. "And probably even your nose, too. It's kind of harder to tell with that one, though."
Santana looks like she wants to smile at Brittany's joke, but she doesn't. She just shrugs, her shoulders floppy like a rag doll's. Brittany guesses that if Santana tried to talk right now, she would probably just cry instead.
For a second, Brittany considers pulling over right then on the road and kissing Santana until she forgets all about Sue Sylvester and the Cheerios and all of Sue's stupid favoritism, but there isn't a shoulder here, so Brittany decides that stopping the car wouldn't really be safe. Plus, Brittany just thought of a different plan to cheer Santana up, and, if she's going to do it, they can't stop just yet.
"Lo siento," Brittany whispers, which doesn't just mean "I'm sorry," even though Mr. Schue swears that, yes, it does.
(It means exactly what Brittany wants to say right now, which is something more like "When your heart breaks, mine does, too," except the Spanish seems fuller than the English does somehow.)
When Brittany checks Santana's reaction in the rear-view, Santana sends Brittany a dark, soft, grateful look, like Brittany just gave her a really thoughtful present or something. Brittany gets that. She squeezes Santana's fingers tighter and hums, low in her throat.
After a minute, Santana speaks. "She hates me," she says, at first quiet, but then her voice rises. "I don't know what I did wrong! She just hates me." Santana huffs. "God."
Brittany sighs, not because she thinks Santana is being dramatic or anything, but because she can tell Santana feels worthless, when really Santana is worth about a googolplex bucks.
"You didn't do anything wrong. And she doesn't hate you," Brittany shrugs, rubbing her thumb over the soft patch of flesh between Santana's thumb and forefinger as she slows the car to make a left turn.
"Britt," Santana says hopelessly, "she didn't even give me a chance to show her what I wanted the stupid routine to look like. When I tried, she told me I was interrupting. She was all like, 'Lopez! ¿Còmo se dice stupid flakes en español?' and then she told me that my mom must have put some on my rice and bean breakfast this morning. She called me Chesty McGee in front of everybody for the first time since…," her voice trails away and Brittany fills in the rest of Santana's sentence in her mind.
… since the commercial.
"Yeah, she did," Brittany agrees. "And that was super mean and not okay and it sucks." Brittany takes a breath and pauses before saying the next part so that Santana knows she's not just racing past the bad stuff because she doesn't think it's real or something. It is real. When Santana nods, Brittany continues, "That still doesn't mean she hates you, though, San."
"But she picked Becky's stupid routine over mine!" Santana complains.
"Yeah," Brittany agrees again. "But she can like Becky's routine without hating yours. And she's like super mean to everybody, even people she likes. I think she's probably just cranky because she's like too old to have sex anymore. Plus, I'm pretty sure that Becky is her number one person, so it's almost like her decision was rigged or something." Brittany shrugs.
"Becky's what?"
"Everybody has a person that they just choose, like, for everything," Brittany explains. "Or at least most people do… maybe not hermits, though."
"Yeah?" Santana says. Her voice sounds lighter than it did a second ago—maybe even a little hopeful. Brittany can't see Santana's face right now because Brittany's merging lanes and has to look at the road, but she can imagine how it must look: eyes wide and sweet brown, her whole self waiting.
They pull up to a stoplight and Brittany full-on looks at Santana, not even in the mirror. She gives Santana's hand a little tug and smiles at her as she draws Santana's fingers up to her mouth and gently kisses her knuckles. Santana seems to get it.
A beat.
"Plus, I'm pretty sure Coach has Chunnel vision or something, because the routine you made up is totally fierce and we so would win the invitational next week if we did it."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Another beat, or maybe seven beats or so.
"Thank you, Britty."
Santana sounds relieved. Now she leans back against her headrest. She reaches over to the cup holder and rustles out Brittany's extra pair of sunglasses and puts them on, covering her eyes. Brittany knows that Santana is trying to look sleepy and bored and over everything that happened at practice, but really she's hiding a blush. When Santana sighs, it's in her high girlie voice.
Brittany smiles because, well, Santana. She kisses Santana's knuckles again. "Bing, bing, bing!" she says, like a bell. "You just gave the correct answer and that means you win a surprise date with your girlfriend to go get ice cream!"
"The correct answer? What was the question?"
"The question was 'Is Santana awesome?' and the answer is 'Yes' and you gave it just by being you, so the rules say that that means you get ice cream now, my treat. Trust me, San—I'm in academic decathlon."
Santana laughs for the first time since before practice and Brittany feels everything get just a little bit lighter. Santana reaches over with her free hand and flicks on the CD player.
For the next few blocks, they sing along at the top of their lungs to happy Taylor Swift songs in twangy Country Western accents—over the summer, they decided that it was okay to listen to Taylor Swift because, seriously, that bitch just gets it, but they also agreed that they would never, ever tell Rachel Berry about how much they liked Taylor Swift, even if Rachel tortured them to make them give their secret up, on pain of death or Broadway movie marathon—and Brittany dances in the driver's seat while Santana drums on the dash.
At stoplights, the people in the cars next to theirs shoot looks at them like they're crazy. They just sing louder and louder.
You are the best thing that's ever been mine
When they pull up the Dairy Queen, Santana turns the stereo off.
"So I'm thinking banana splits," she says, peeling off her sunglasses. "Fuck Coach, you know?"
Brittany nods. "Totally."
When she pulls up to order and rolls down the window, a burst of cold air comes into the car. The mumbling voice on the other end of the intercom tells her to order whenever she's ready. She flashes a grin at Santana and leans her head out the window.
"Um, okay, okay, yo," she says in her best fake ghetto voice, holding her right hand loosely in front of her mouth, shaking her left hand out the window, flashing pretend gang signs, but really just snapping her fingers. "A'ight. I'ma check dis mic."
About then, Santana cracks up. Her head snaps back and she leans against the window, covering her mouth with both hands. "Oh my god!" she chokes.
Brittany just smirks and continues, bobbing her head like she's listening to a rap song, even though she doesn't have headphones on. She wishes she had a baseball hat. She should have stolen Mike's from out of his locker or something. Then she could have worn it backwards or sideways, low over her eyes.
"Hook me up wit one banana split wit a lil' sumpin' a whipped cream for me, and another banana split wit hella whipped cream for my shawty." A pause. "Please."
Santana laughs her biggest laugh—the one that comes with her biggest smile and her deepest dimples, which, oh god, Brittany loves—and doubles over in her seat, slapping her knee first, then reaching over to slap Brittany's. Their eyes meet and they both laugh so loud that Brittany almost doesn't hear it when the guy on the intercom asks her if that will be all.
"'Fo sho," she says.
"That'll be $7.98 at the window. Please pull ahead when you're ready."
"Oh my fucking god, BrittBritt!" Santana gasps as Brittany takes her foot off the brake and the car scoots forward, flanking the building. Santana doesn't stop laughing until the cashier opens the window to take Brittany's debit card, and, even then, she only stops for a second, her smile stuttering as she tries to tame it, until she sees how confused the cashier looks when he realizes that Brittany and Santana are the only two people in the car; then she starts giggling again.
The cashier returns with Brittany's card and her receipt and hands them out to her, wary.
Brittany can't help herself.
She puts on her best straight face. "Dis me," she says, pointing at her own chest. "Dis my shawty," she says, gesturing to Santana. "We wifeys." For a second, there's silence, then Santana erupts into laughter again. Brittany extends her hand to Santana over the console and Santana takes it.
The cashier says that he'll be back with their order, but doesn't quite move yet. He just stares into the car, confused.
"Wifeys!" Santana laughs, not even trying to contain it anymore. She tugs on Brittany's hand and grins, wide and bright and careless. She looks at Brittany like Brittany is the best and funniest person in the whole world. For a second, Brittany really feels like she is.
The cashier disappears again, shaking his head.
"You're gonna cause a power outage if you keep using all the electricity in Lima to light that smile," Brittany teases.
(Cheesy flirting with Santana is always the right decision to make. Always, always, always.)
"Oh my god!" Santana shouts, delighted.
She clutches her free hand to her heart, like Brittany is just too much for her right now. Brittany is about one-thousand percent sure that Santana has the most beautiful smile in the whole world and the best laugh, too, because you can't see Santana smile without getting butterflies and without thinking about how sometimes the world can be a really awesome place and you can't hear Santana's laugh without laughing yourself, which just proves that, even though not too many people realize it, Santana is actually super good at making people happy, which is probably why Brittany feels happier than she's ever felt before right now.
Brittany smiles because all that rapper stuff was a pretty good thing to say, she guesses. She laughs because Santana's laughing and kisses her knuckles again. Santana ducks forward—quickly, before the cashier gets back—and kisses Brittany, still laughing. Her mouth feels warm and her voice makes Brittany's lips buzz. When she draws back, she's still swallowing giggles.
"Mhm," Brittany hums, dizzy with loving Santana so much and having Santana love her so much right back.
"Thank you for paying for mine," Santana says shyly.
"And thank you for being the cutest person in the world and for letting me pay," Brittany returns.
They sit there for another minute, just staring at each other, and neither one of them feels cold, even though the window is still open. Brittany watches Santana's eyes, which are dark and bright at the same time and are basically the reason why brown has always been Brittany's favorite color, ever since they were little.
"Hi," Santana says.
"Hi," Brittany says back.
The cashier opens the window and passes the banana splits out to Brittany carefully, one at a time. He seems glad that they've quieted down, but Brittany doesn't really pay attention to him. She just says thanks and passes Santana's split—the one with extra whipped cream—over to Santana and then rolls up the window. She drives into the parking lot and stops the car so they can both eat.
By the time they're halfway through their splits, both of them are shivering and full. They turn up the heat in the car, but that only makes the ice cream melt faster, so they end up with ice cream soup, which Brittany tosses out the window into the garbage can at the corner of the parking lot, before heading for home.
Along the way, they sing more Taylor Swift songs—which Santana claims totally ruins Brittany's street cred, even though Brittany's pretty sure that pimps can just do how they do, even if how they do involves belting Taylor Swift while they drive in the car with their girlfriends, knowwhadimsayin'?—and talk about glee club instead of Cheerios. When they pull up to Brittany's house, they sit in the driveway for a second and Santana leans over and kisses Brittany, deep on the lips, first chaste, then French, until Brittany can feel her heartbeat in her ears.
"Thank you," Santana says, when she pulls away, breathless. She smiles, "According to the rules, I think I owe you like a hundred surprise dates now because the question is 'Is Brittany perfect?' and the answer is 'Yes' and that kiss was just…"
"Wow."
"Yeah. Wow."
They both laugh, not because anything's funny and not because they're nervous, but because they're together and everything just feels right. Brittany unclicks her safety belt and leans over across the console to press her forehead against Santana's. "Ready to go inside, shawty?" she says, bumping their noses together.
Santana rolls her eyes, but can't help but grin. "Goofus," Santana says, blushing. Then, "Yeah, sure am, boo."
(When she chooses Santana and Santana chooses her and then they go on choosing each other forever, every day, it's always, always the right answer, Brittany thinks.)
