Author's Note:

Taeblancaxoxo: I most certainly appreciate it.

bagel419: Firstly, thanks for such an in-depth review. Secondly, I apologize for any and all ambiguity surrounding what Brittany knows/doesn't know. As a writer, I'm garbage at proofing my work. (It's my cross to bear, lol.) This is an on-the-fly project, and I hope that fact doesn't bite me in the ass. Below is a rough summary of what's happened so far, and I hope it helps to clear up any questions or concerns. Again, thanks for the valuable feedback.

- Chapter 1: Santana takes the fall for Brittany's screw-up and goes to jail. Ends with the day before senior year, which is the day Santana is released.

- Chapter 2: (This is where I can see the confusion taking place. After a proofreading, even I was confused. Sorry.) Brittany knows Santana is being released, and halfway expects to see her at school. When she doesn't, she goes searching for answers of her whereabouts. Finds that she's lost Santana again. Passes out and wakes up in Santana's apartment.


I don't know what I expected our reunion to be like. Tears, yes. Maybe a hug. An abundance of "I'm sorry"s. But nothing like this. So impersonal, so removed. When Santana used to say, "Expectation breeds disappointment", it never really clicked with me. Not until now. So when she commands me to sit down and doesn't bother to look up, it becomes painfully clear that this isn't the Santana I last spoke with at Karofsky's party. She's transformed into the ghost that haunted me for fourteen months.

"Coffee and aspirin are on the table," she says, focusing on flipping and piling pancakes onto a plate.

I'm tentative in sitting, afraid that the chair might break. The other one doesn't look any sturdier. Everything here is so run down. Decrepit. Bare and plain, much like the bedroom. A couch makes up the entire furniture ensemble in her living room. It's torn and stained; what someone else's garbage looks like. Honestly, it fits right in with this place.

Santana eventually joins me at the table, setting a plate stacked high with pancakes in front of me. I don't dare speak to her. Hell, I'm too afraid to make eye contact. The harshness in her voice. An extra twinge of rasp in it, as if she's picked… Santana lights a cigarette. As if Santana's picked up a smoking habit.

I devour the pancakes in silence. They're my favorite. Plain with Lucky Charms inside. A small flicker of warmth fills my chest at the simple gesture. It's proof enough that Santana hasn't totally forgotten about me. Billows of smoke start flowing from the table, well into the kitchen. My eyes follow the trail, noting just how little food there is. I feel guilty, considering my breakfast is considered a feast by her current standards. Within a few agonizing minutes, Santana puts her cigarette out underneath the table, clears her throat, and breaches the territory I've been fearful of.

"Care to explain why I found you perched underneath my neighbor's staircase?"

"Not really," I mumble, dropping my fork onto the plate. For some reason, "I just wanted to see my best friend" doesn't seem like an acceptable answer. Judging by her forwardness in the matter, I assume this conversation will be nothing more than a game of twenty questions, and hangovers don't afford that kind of patience.

"And this," she starts, slamming my Cheerios bottle on the table. "This is a sure-fire way to fuck your life up."

Fourteen months; 427 days. And this is the conversation I've been waiting for. "Care to explain why you're acting like my mother?" I finally mock.

Santana laughs the condescending laugh I'd never expect from her. Not directed toward me, at least. She maintains an eerily calm persona, though. "Care to explain why you're acting like such a child? Besides, I highly doubt your mom's ever showed this much concern. Kind of hard to with a bottle permanently attached to your mouth."

I should be offended. I should be offended as all hell. But when I look up to continue arguing, Santana catches me. Her appearance, actually. The two previously beautiful, brown eyes are baggy and sunken. Like she hasn't slept in a week. She's bone thin. Much skinnier than she used to be, if that's possible. Someone defeated. A victim of time and circumstance. Someone carrying a heavy load. A load far heavier than a mother who sleeps all the time.

"I was worried about you. That's all. When you didn't show up for school, and no one would tell me where you went. Not Mr. Schuester. Not Ms. Pillsbury. I even went to your house and-"

"Don't go there," she interjects. Her eyes are wide now, as if I've struck some kind of emotional cord.

"Everyone's been ordering me around recently. 'Go home, Brittany.' 'Don't go there.' Tell me: what exactly am I allowed to do, Santana? Because I'm trying. I really am."

I've apparently lost Santana's attention, because she shuffles from the table and into the bedroom, returning with a small wooden box. "You're welcome to get the hell out of my life," she says, forcing the box into my arms.

This is nothing at all how I imagine us to be reunited. A quick breakfast plagued with bickering; being ushered out. And this is definitely not the Santana I remember. Confrontational. Hostile. The boundaries are unclear. I'm not sure which comments will or won't get me hit. Prepared for what may come, I muster a courageous, "No."

She opens the door and points outside. "Out. Now."

"Come back to school."

"Out," she repeats. More forcibly this time.

I'm desperate at this point. If only to spend a few more seconds in her presence. "Look. You don't have to come back to Cheerios or glee club- just school. Reenroll and you won't have to worry about me anymore. Graduate. I won't say a single word to you ever again."

That look penetrates her features again. The look when people have to choose between two flavors of ice cream, so they stand and mull over the options. Her body slacks against the door frame before she nods and says, "Deal."

I walk furiously, too hurt and too close to crying to stick around any longer. As I begin on the stairs, Santana calls out to me one last time. And if it's her mission to break my heart, then she's succeeding. Because what falls out of her mouth cuts me deeper than I ever could've imagined.

"No one told you where I went because I asked them not to. I didn't want to see you."


You know that saying about people being so lost that all they want is someone to find them? Bullshit. Finding people only results in being kicked out of their apartment, carrying a box of unopened letters.

Week after week, putting myself out there. For what? To be reminded that Santana doesn't care, and hasn't cared for a long time? At this point, what Artie said last year makes sense. About me being stupid. I'd have to be to think Santana could ever forgive, let alone love me again.

And now she's here to remind me every day. Her worn, fragile presence- the image of my shortcomings.

Ms. Pillsbury seems particularly excited with Santana's return to McKinley. While I'm peeking into Principal Figgins's office, watching as Santana signs the necessary papers for reenrollment, a breathe tickles the back of my arm. It breaks me from nerve-induced trance. "I don't know what you did, Brittany, but it was great work," Ms. Pillsbury whispers.

Despite the falling out, I refuse to take anything from the grandeur of her return. "She did it all by herself. I just gave the push." It hurts to say, because I knew that with every push, she's slowly pulling away.


If I felt crazy for imagining Santana on the first day of school, then I'm convinced I far exceeded crazy. Her voice has infiltrated my thoughts. Old conversations replay. The fight. Sometimes I script the things I'll say to her if we ever speak again.

With less to do after school, I'm trying to spend more time with my mom. You know, keep loved ones close. Since, it appears, love has become such a fragile thing. Where Mom used to get mad if I bugged her in the evenings, she invites me to sit in the living room and drink from our respective water bottles. There's never anything to talk about, so we just sit until we fall asleep.

Tonight, when her eyes begin to close and pop open, close and pop open, like a baby fighting a nap, I ask my mom, "Do you ever hear voices? Like Dad's talking in your head?"

She swallows and looks to the ceiling. I haven't seen my mother show this kind of emotion since his funeral. And I was eight then. She takes a deep breath before standing up. "Your father's gone, Brittany." That's it. My mother sleeps in her old bedroom for the first time in almost ten years.


The days are beginning to run together, it feels. Every morning it's the same routine. Get up and shower, depending on if the hot water heater feels like working. Fix my Cheerios bottle, and follows Mom's advice. Two swallows to get the coughing out of my system. Then start the trek to school.

My stomach grumbles the entire way there and all through first period. I make a mental note to use what's left of my cash to buy breakfast tomorrow. Mom keeps forgetting to go grocery shopping, and I'm afraid she's already spent this month's money. At least Coach Sylvester will be proud that I'm keeping in such good shape.


Santana isn't back on the Cheerios. In fact, they won't let her come back to glee club, even if she wants to. Mr. Schuester tells me she has to take remedial classes to make up for all of the time missed. And work twice as hard if she wants to graduate this year.

It's a weird concept, however, because Santana spends every Tuesday and Thursday in Ms. Pillsbury's office. Sometimes I stand and watch her through the glass, playing card games at one of those fold-up tables. It's confusing and difficult to grasp as she moves cards from pile to pile. She seems pleased when she leans back against the chair, admiring the work, collects, and deals the cards once more.

Santana never catches me staring because I duck whenever her attention shifts my way. It's not like I'm violating the terms of our agreement (because I'm not). I just can't help to wonder if she knows I'm out here. I can't help but to feel that if I were to stand tall, not flinch when she looks my way, Santana would be able to see right through me.


Mom and I are back on good terms. At least I think we are. She brings home weird stuff for us to do together. Tonight, it's a puzzle. A 500-piece picture of the Eiffel Tower. We sit and work in silence, as always. Sometimes I make small talk, which doesn't upset her as long as I don't mention Dad. Or Santana, for that matter. Whenever I mention her, Mom just huffs and readjusts in her chair.

Tonight, I have a little too much and knock pieces off of the table, which isn't big enough for the puzzle anyway. Then I try and force pieces into the wrong slots. All honest mistakes. But Mom gets really agitated. Berates me for not handling the liquor and demands I fix the mess. A thought pops in my head while she yells. Santana's always been a puzzle. Hard to understand in increments. Beautiful in its entirety.

It's my fault her pieces are mixed up, and it's my job to put them back together.


Lunch time used to be my favorite part of the day. However, it's not so much fun when you don't actually have a lunch.

Sometimes I'll pick food off of Mercedes or Kurt's plates, but that's the extent of it. And since Mr. Schuester has placed funky purple pianos all over the school, everyone spends a lot of their time quietly discussing how to get out of the assignment.

"It's too much pressure," Artie says.

Kurt chimes in, "I agree. That is like wearing a red dress to a bull fight."

Their voices begin to fade. I just sit at the end of the table, watching Santana in the corner, feeling slightly better after last night's puzzle revelation. She eats quicker than anyone I've ever seen. Like the food is going to be taken at away at any moment. Every time someone enters the cafeteria, and the door slams shut, she practically jumps out of her skin. Just a handful of items added to the list of issues Brittany has caused Santana.

Karofsky strolls past Santana and leans down to whisper something. Seconds pass. No reaction. I release the breath I've been holding. That should've been the start of World War III, and she did nothing. But his attention directs toward me. Artie wheels away, Kurt and Mercedes leave to hunt for tater tots, and everyone else decides to duck out before Mr. Schuester shows up. I'm alone. Karofsky leans on the table, wearing a smirk I know Santana wishes she could smack off.

"I'm having a little soiree at my place this Friday. Feel like passing through?"

I shake my head violently, hoping to get the point across that I don't exactly go to parties anymore. Every day's a party at my house. Just less people and fewer tears. Karofsky doesn't get the hint, apparently, because he presses on. "Why not? You can even bring those glee friends of yours. It'll be a slushie-free zone. Promise."

"Don't feel like it," I mutter, suddenly feeling queasy. And since puking in the cafeteria isn't on my list of things to do, I quickly jump from the table, turning on my heel away from the football player. When he grabs my forearm is when I finally come to understand the phrase, "All hell breaking loose".

A tray violently smacks into the rear of Karofsky's head, sending him toppling to the ground. I watch Santana, breathless, as she collects herself before saying, "Don't. Fuck. With. Her." It's that scary-calm voice again.

When the cafeteria doors fly open, Santana must realize what's about to happen, because she immediately drops the tray and places both hands behind her head. It's confusing until Officer Porter, the new security guard that came with Santana's return to school, places his forearm behind her shoulder blades and shoves Santana against the wall. He places a firm grip on the back of her head and they're gone in a flash.


I'm panicking. If another student had hit Karofsky, the situation would be handled differently. I know that for a fact. Unfortunately, whatever I say in Santana's defense is null. No one's going to believe me. So I grab Dave's arm, force him up, and march us to Principal Figgins's doors.

"This is your fault," I spit, anger coursing through my veins. "Go in there and make it right."

Karofsky curls his nose with every word that falls from my mouth. I stop, remembering the reason I didn't talk to begin with. A light bulb must go off, because his face lights up. Pursed lips turn into a sneer. "What's in it for me?" he asks.

Through the glass I can see Principal Figgins on the phone. Time's running short, that's for certain. Officer Porter has finally let go of Santana's hands, and she's alternating between rubbing her wrists and scribbling imaginary letters into her right hand. Guilt floods my chest. I can only imagine what bad memories are invading Santana's mind right now.

I can't go to Karofsky's party this weekend. I just can't. There's too much pain. I opt for the next best thing when it comes to high school guys. Something I'm good at. "Sex. I'll sleep with you."


Karofsky's hands wildly gesticulate and convince Principal Figgins to put the phone down. Hell, even I'm convinced, and the only words I've heard are "stage" and "hit". Santana doesn't once look up. Instead, she keeps alternating between the scribbling and wrist-rubbing.

The puzzle. The puzzle. The puzzle. I keep the two words circulating in my mind. It's my fault that all of the pieces are mixed up, and it's my job to put them back together.

When Dave finally exits the office, he's bearing a triumphant grin. Pure elation replaces the guilt the in my chest. That is, until Karofsky leans into my ear and whispers a sly, "My place. Ten o'clock."