I'd walked back up the street, climbed the lattice on the side of the house—Brittany hated when I did that in the winter; one year I'd slipped on the ice and sprained my wrist—crawled in her window, and was now standing at the foot of her bed in my jacket and the Santa Claus hat I'd stupidly put back on my head. Now it was dripping melted snow down my neck, but I was too afraid to move and take it off.

"Remember when you wouldn't sing a duet with me?"

"Yeah."

"And when we went on a double-date with Puck and Artie and you were all over him the whole time?"

"He was my date, Britt—"

"And all the Saturday nights you were supposed to spend the night but you left every time someone booty-texted you?"

I closed my eyes. "Yeah."

"This was worse than all of those."

"Brittany, I didn't even do anything. Your gramma was being a bitch."

"It's Christmas, Santana."

Oh, full names. We both just went there. When your best friend uses your full name, you know you're in shit. Nicknames are proof of good standing.

"You always spend Christmas Eve here, and Gramma D's always here, too. What's different about this year?"

"I'm sorry, did you hear the verbal abuse that woman was spewing? And don't give me shit about some stroke—the last thing that batshit crazy needs is people defending her."

"She's my gramma, S. Don't say that."

"I'm sorry. But it's true."

"Why are you so angry?"

"Why do you think?"

"How am I supposed to know if you don't tell me?"

"You're just supposed to know, B, Jesus. You're supposed to know me." I turned around to face the window, arms folded across my chest. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass and closed my eyes tightly, refusing to watch my breath cloud the windowpane.

"I'm not a mind reader. You have to talk to me."

There was a long silence. I reached up and slowly pulled off the Santa hat so I could have something to do with my hands. Also so the goddamn freezing cold water would stop dripping down my back.

"It's not because of my gramma, is it," she said.

"Yes it is," I whispered.

"It's 'cause of what she said. The gay thing."

My shoulders tensed. Finally, I turned to look at her. She hadn't moved from her cross-legged position on the bed. "I'm not—"

"Yeah, I know," she said shortly, frowning a little.

"It's just that—"

"I know, San."

"Would you stop? A minute ago you're yelling at me 'cause I won't talk to you—"

"I wasn't yelling."

"—and now you won't shut up and let me talk? Goddamnit, Britt!" I sat down on the end of the bed, facing the wall, and rubbed my thumbs over the fuzzy red fabric in my hands. I could see Brittany watching me patiently out of the corner of my eye. I sighed and threw my head back to look at the ceiling. "Can we talk about this later? It's a shitty Christmas Eve talk. And if we don't fall asleep soon Santa won't come."

I finally looked at her, expecting a horrified expression. But her eyes… I've never seen her so sad. Not even when we accidentally stumbled upon a nest of large eggs that had been crushed by a fallen tree (pretty sure they were goose eggs, but she kept crying about how the little duckies would never grow up to swim in the stream or see the fluffy clouds and shit like that). This… this was a deeper sadness. No tears. Like it was coming straight from her heart. My chest ached and I looked away.

"Can you go home now."

If my chest felt like it was aching before, now it felt like it had just caved in. Collapsed. Broke. This was the worst Christmas ever. "Are you serious?"

She nodded and picked at her sock, refusing to look at me.

"Why?"

"I don't want you to sleep here tonight."

"Britt, we do this every year. Please." Shit. I wished I could suck that needy word right back in. But maybe I was a little desperate…. Truth was my parents never got home until noon on Christmas, and while I loved celebrating it with them, waking up on Christmas morning to an empty house and an unlit tree with only the presents I'd put beneath it was fucking depressing. Brittany knew that. "I guess…. We can… we can talk for a little if you want."

A tiny gust of wind brought a momentary flurry of snowflakes against the window.

"Why'd you run out earlier?" she asked.

"Why didn't you follow me?"

"Why do you need me to follow you?"

I closed my eyes. So far this was not productive. "I don't."

"Really. So if I stopped following you around you'd be totally fine."

I scoffed and started to roll my eyes before I caught a glimpse of her dead-serious expression. The exhale died on my lips. "No."

She smiled softly. "It's okay to be scared."

"Please. I'm not scared."

"I know you're brave, baby. But it's okay to be scared."

I melted a little at the affection and bit my lip. She moved to sit next to me and brushed a stray lock from my temple, running her fingers gently through my hair. "I just hate… I hate feeling like this," I said.

"Like what?"

"Like… weak. I'm not good at… I'm not good at being the one in trouble."

"You're always in trouble."

"No, I mean real trouble. Well, maybe not trouble, but… you know?"

"Tell me."

"It's just… what if it's not different."

"What do you mean?"

"Every time—it's always the same. Everybody leaves."

"Except me."

"How do I know? How do you know you won't want to leave?"

"Why are you worried about that?"

"How can I not be worried about that."

"If I've known you for twelve years and I haven't left yet?"

"Someday you'll learn something you don't like about me, and then you'll leave."

Brittany smiled. "There are things I don't like about you, but it doesn't mean I'm going anywhere."

I felt a familiar panic rise. "Like what? You never told me."

"Like… whenever we have a fight, you pick your nails, and you don't even know you're doing it, and then you file them extra hard at school the next day and I have to think about the fight all over again. Whenever you ask me how you look, no matter what I say, you always check the mirror again before we leave. Things like that."

"I'll stop."

"No, I don't want you to. Otherwise you won't be you, and I like you."

"You like me."

"Well." She said, smiling and tilting her head to the side, as if saying I should know better.

I swallowed hard. "What if I'm not good enough."

"You are," she said. "I don't know what more you want."

"I just want… I just…" I rolled my eyes a little. "It's stupid, okay? But, like… I'd change everything, you know?"

"Why?"

"Not like—not…" The word "us" caught in my throat. "Not what…" Brittany watched me patiently as I struggled for less-loaded phrases. "I'd change—I mean, if that's what…" I laughed humorlessly and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. "I'm such a disaster, Britt. Why do you even put up with me."

"You're avoiding the question."

Fuck it. "Look. I…" I couldn't bring myself to look at her. I stared hard at a spot on the carpet where she'd spilled hot chocolate when we were little and had just come back from hockey (our ice careers only lasted one practice). When I spoke again, my voice was so soft I wasn't sure she'd hear. I wasn't sure I wanted her to hear. "I need you. But I don't know if you…"

"If I what?"

"I don't think you need me like I need you."

"Honey," she breathed and untangled her fingers from my hair to pull me close to her. I melted into her, inhaling the raspberry vanilla scent she always wore in the winter. "You know I do."

"I'm not worth it."

"Why would you say that?"

"It's true. I'm a mess. How could you possibly—why would you even want this? Forget about needing it."

"Stop it," she said, cupping my face and forcing me to look her in the eye. "You are the most awesomest person I know."

I shook my head, but that got a little smile out of me. "Why?"

"Because. Sometimes you give me piggy-back rides even though I'm bigger than you. And you always want to be the big spoon, and I know you said it's because you're a badass and badasses are never the little spoon, but I think it's really because you don't want anything to be able to sneak up behind me when we're sleeping. And you have the most amazing voice. And you stir my mom's mushroom soup when she leaves the room without even rolling your eyes."

I fell into her again, clutching the front of her shirt desperately and taking a shaky breath.

"That was supposed to make you feel better—why are you still crying?"

"I'm not," I whispered, not trusting my voice to speak any louder.

She smiled against the top of my head.

I exhaled just as unsteadily and gripped her tighter. "I love you."