Chapter 4
You park your car and check the time. It's around 11:30 and you told Sam you would meet him at his house before noon to check in on him before you have to report to the precinct again. Your weekend off is nearly over - not that you felt like you got much down time given your new 'relationship' with Santana. Well you did get to spend some time in a new bar so there's that.
Sam's house is a cute little one story with a few bedrooms and a nice yard. There's a gorgeous red front door with a complicated stained glass pattern and mulch all around bushes that are kept neat and trim. Everything about it is welcoming.
Even the cute little gnome by the steps leading up to the small landing seems to be smiling at you when you walk up the front path.
Mercedes had made sure when she moved in 8 months ago that their house reflected their life together and not the 'man-pad' that Sam has lived in throughout his early 20's. She was good for him and they were good together. She was an absolute mess when you came and got her that night on the way to the hospital.
You hit the doorbell and stand back a little, looking up and down the street but seeing nothing worth noting. You are turning back when the door flies open to your friend and partner, Sam sporting a sling around his arm and a grin from ear to ear.
"Thank God you're here," he tells you as he uses his good arm to wrap you in a small hug. You're somewhat of a touchy-feely person but not as much with the guys. Or without tequila. Sam knows he is one of the few that can get away with it.
You have always been a bit unusual about your personal space.
"Wow, miss me?," you ask him as you squeeze back gently, mindful that he is still in some pain. You can tell it must be slightly controlled by the light sheen in his eyes. "Good painkillers?" you chuckle as you walk in behind him into the small foyer.
Sam shuts the door. "Shut up!," he punches your arm playfully. "You know I hate taking that kind of stuff but it does take the edge off. You wouldn't believe how much it hurts getting shot."
You wince a little at the memory. "I hope I never do," you tell him as you reach out and lightly touch his shoulder. Your voice lowers to a whisper. "I can't tell you how much that scared me."
He leads you into the kitchen where he has a pot of coffee already brewed and the newspaper on the table. You move it to the side as you sit down in the chair and he pours you a cup.
"Really," you say to him as he places the mug in front of you and turns to pour a cup of his own, "how are you doing?"
His arm shakes just a little bit pouring the coffee for himself and you're not sure if it is because he is using his weaker arm or if it is the memory of everything. "I am doing ok. Mercedes has been great you know making sure I was set up once I got out of the hospital. She just went back to work at the school today; they had let her off all of last week but I told her I was fine now. I have lowered my meds dosage and I can do most everything without help. The doctor says it won't be long until I can get this sling off, do some physical therapy and get back to work myself."
He sits down next to you with the cheeky grin. "Plus this daytime TV is killing me. There's only so much Ellen you can watch!"
You smile back at him. "Don't talk about my people that way."
"She's only half your people," he says taking a sip after blowing a bit to cool off the beverage. "You bi-sexuals don't get to claim 'your people' every opportunity!"
You have missed his silly banter. He always knows how to lighten the mood when it is a topic that particularly scares him. You're sure that this whole experience has made him play out scenarios in his head of where he could have ended up if the bullet had hit a little more to the left.
You sit in comfortable silence for a minute and look out the blinds that wrap the windows in the kitchen. It is a gorgeous day outside. Sam's windows are open and you can hear the birds and smell the grass and feel the light breeze. You wonder what it would be like to be sitting at a kitchen table enjoying coffee with someone else. Someone with dark hair. You wonder how she takes her coffee.
It's only been a few moments but you're already down the path in your head. You don't even realize you're daydreaming like that until Sam says "Earth to Brittany."
You let it go for the time being and turn back to Sam.
"Do you want to talk about what happened," you ask him. You don't want to make him upset with it being so fresh and you have read the report they took from him in the hospital right after but you're curious to see if he remembers anything else – anything more.
"I remember most of it but there are a few areas where I wonder if it really happened or if I am confused. We got the call to the apartment and as soon as we knocked on the door the woman answered and we saw the guy run and chased him into the stairwell."
Sam looks uncomfortable, lost even a bit in the haze of the painkillers and the memory. You don't want to push him. You know him well enough to know that he likes to process things in his own way, in his own time. You have no problem giving him the space he needs to talk about it and remember it at the pace he wants
You on the other hand remember everything. Things Sam wouldn't because he wasn't in the lead or he was down when it was happening. The facial expression of the woman when she opened the door and you told her you were there about the call for a domestic violence. How Sam's voice had echoed in the hallway identifying you as police when you began you pursuit when William ran. The way the darkness of the hallway dimmed your vision when you kicked the door open with your gun drawn and yelled for Williams to stop running. Your pace as you ran down the stairs thinking he had gone all the way down only to find out too late he had doubled back onto the second floor and come out behind you both. The look in Sam's eyes as they met yours for a split second before he fell in the stairwell after he'd taken the bullet. The smell of the gunpowder when you shot back at the door with the bullets going through the still present opening as it swung closed, hitting Williams in the process all the while trying to find your radio to tell dispatch you had an officer down.
Just thinking about it made your head swim.
"We can talk about it later," you tell Sam. "I just wanted to make sure you were ok. You know we will have plenty of time when you're back in the car with me."
He looks a bit grateful so you know this was a good stopping point.
You switch to a safer topic. "How is Mercedes doing?"
You visit with him talking about nothing of consequence and see behind him that the clock on the stove is registering 12:45. Sam knows it's about time for you to come on for the day and stands, taking your coffee mug to the sink.
"It was great catching up," you tell him, "and I am happy to take you to Breadstix when you feel up to it so you can get your fix. I am not sure how you have made it this long without it." The comments are playful but he knows your relationship – both professionally and personally – is rock solid. You can see in his eyes the truth – you are so relieved he is ok.
He walks you to the door.
"Maybe we can grab lunch on Wednesday next week. I have my first meeting with my shrink over by the precinct then," he tells you. "I guess they want to make sure I am working through any post-traumatic stress in conjunction with the physical therapy so I can get back to it as soon as possible. I know I left you a message about it the other day and you were undoubtedly enjoying your weekend off but how did your appointment go?"
You freeze just a little. You should have been better prepared to answer that question but you're not. "Um, yeah it was ok. You know the same old bullshit questions about how did this make you feel and how did that make you feel. Just like in the movies." You laugh and try to brush it off but you know he is asking not really to hear how you reply but because he is nervous about his own appointment.
"But did you like him?" Sam asks as he opens the door for you.
"Her," you say not thinking it through.
"Your shrink is a woman huh?," Sam wiggles his eyebrows a little at you with a smirk on his face.
You make sure you don't stutter when you say "yeah, my shrink's a woman but whatever they're all the same. I mean what do you expect from a police shrink who probably has too many years on the job and is only going through the motions. It was fine but she was a little predictable with her questions."
You're starting to babble.
Predictable? Nothing could be further from the truth there but you just want to say as little as possible to avoid a full blown conversation. You hate not being truly forthcoming with Sam. You wish you had someone – anyone – that you could talk about this with. But you know you can't.
You turn to him as he leaves the door open and you start down the front path. "Let's plan on a lunch date on Wednesday next week. I'll meet you at Breadstix at noon."
Sam walks you out toward your car. You can't help thinking that you are going to see her soon. Even if it's only a few moments the thought of it makes your heart race.
"I'm so ready to tear up some breadsticks," he tells you as you open the door and slide behind the wheel. "I will make sure my shrink gets me in early enough that we can meet beforehand and I can tell you all about my session at lunch."
Your gut goes again. You don't know why but it does. "Hey, Sam just out of curiosity who are you seeing next week?"
"Hang on," Sam tells you as he closes his door for you and pulls his phone out of his pocket. You just have time to start your car and roll the window down when he finds what he is looking for in his phone.
"Dr. Chase Strathorn ," he tells you.
You try your best not to let Sam see the range of emotions that are bubbling just under the surface as you tell him you'll call him later to firm it all up and check in on him.
You also try your best not to peal out with your car as you leave his neighborhood but by the time you are on the interstate headed downtown you're going at least 85.
Your mind is going even faster.
Fuck you Santana.
/
You squeal into a parking space at the precinct with your car and take 5 minutes to sit there and try to compose yourself. Santana has Sam going to see her next week? You are so livid you cannot formulate a mature response in your head or otherwise. She specifically told you not to mention anything to Sam and yet she is dragging him into this full force as well.
Has she been watching him too?
Somehow that seems worse than anything else. You mentally chide yourself: do you think you are special or something? You feel possessive almost.
You try and shake the disappointment. But all you can remember is the email from last night and how she promised to earn your trust, to have your back. It hasn't even been 24 hours and she has blown that bullshit lip service sky high. You are angry, you are tired and you don't understand why she is doing this to you, to Sam.
You are not interested in waiting another 2 hours to find out either.
You take the stairs to the Dr. Strathron's office two at a time and you're breathing heavy when you get to the outer door. You take a short minute to compose yourself before opening the door. You look over and see Rachel at her desk, typing away at her laptop.
"One second," she says not bothering to look up.
It doesn't take you but the second Rachel is giving you to see the waiting room holds just the two of you. You aren't waiting for an additional one as you stride past her through the waiting room and toward the door to the main office. Rachel nearly gasps when she looks up and finally sees that it's you. She stands quickly and in a hushed whisper says "Brittany! You can't go in there!"
You turn to her with what you hope is an unreadable expression. "Is she not there?"
"Your appointment with her is not until 3," Rachel tells you as she steps closer to where you are standing right outside the door.
"I am well aware of when I was instructed to see Lt. Lopez," all formalitlies now, "but that's not what I asked. Is she not in there?"
"But…. but your appointment isn't until 3," Rachel stutters beginning to show a little of that nervousness you saw when you confronted her in the bathroom about leaving the business card on your work phone.
From her demeanor and her response you already have the answer to your question. You open the door and see Santana in the chair behind the big mahgony desk looking up, staring at you.
Rachel, not to be undone, makes one feeble attempt to talk you back out of the room before Santana says "Rachel. It's ok. Why don't you go down and grab you some lunch. Everything is fine here."
Everything is so not fine but it's hard to keep up your motivation, your anger because the entire time Santana was talking to Rachel her eyes never broke contact with yours. Fucking electric.
You barely hear Rachel close the door behind you.
"Brittany," Santana says smoothly and she rises from the chair and comes around to stand in front of you, "I assume since you decided to come here nearly 2 hours before our pre-arranged time that something important has come up? Otherwise weren't you supposed to report to the preciinct," she looks at her watch on a delicate wrist, "about 8 minutes ago?"
"I went and saw Sam today," you tell her watching her for a reaction. Did she stiffen just bit? You're not sure but you continue. "Apparently Santana, he has an appointment with his shrink next week."
She looks at you and tilts her head only slightly, those chocolate eyes never leaving yours even for a moment. "And this you need to share with me earlier than our schedule time, why?
"Because he is scheduled to see fucking Dr. Chase Strathorn and I'm telling you that if you want me to continue in this scenario then that is absolutely not happening! Sam could never handle this. He has family and people that love him and that he loves back. I won't agree to it Santana. If Sam is brought into this, I will not help you!" You don't know exactly when you started to raise your voice but you do know that you were loud enough for Rachel to have heard had she not been granted her leave.
Santana looks at you and whispers. "Brittany, stop."
You glance down to see she has laid her hand against your arm, her touch so light and yet you find it overwhelms you. You look up at her and only then does she break eye contact, looking to see where her skin is on yours and she slowly draws it away.
"I told you that you have to trust me. Sam has indeed been assigned to see Dr. Strathorn. But Brittany, Dr. Strathorn is real. He is a psychiatrist here that helps others in the station. This office has his name plate on the door but that's only for show. When Sam goes to see him next week he will be on the 5th floor. He will not be here."
Your rapid heartbeat slows a bit as Santana continues. "Brittany, this operation involves you and I only. I have no plans or instructions to involve anyone else and if that changes I would certainly inform you. You and I are a team. I would not withhold such pertinent information from you."
You feel better and worse all at the same time. Better because Sam is not involved in this. Worse because you have demonstrated to Santana yet again that you do not trust her, that you have no faith in her or what she's saying to you.
And you both know it.
"Brittany?" She has stepped back a few feet to gain some space between the two of you. To re-establish your boundaries again physically as well as in every other way.
You're not thinking straight.
"Have dinner with me tonight."
It's not a question and you blurt it out before you realize you were even going to say it. Oh shit.
For the first time since you met her, Santana is startled. You see it.
"I don't think that is a good idea."
But her words are not convincing and they certainly don't match her actions. She takes an almost unconscious step back towards you.
"Please," you ask her. "I think it is an important step for us to form this bond of trust. You know so much about me and yet I don't know anything about you. I don't really even know what it is I am doing here. Have dinner with me, Santana. So we can talk."
Santana begins to exert the same kind of control you have seen in your prior meetings. She slips back into it as she steps away from you and back around her desk.
"That's not a good idea Brittany," she says with a sense of finality. "Our time seen together anywhere public should be limited. But if you want we can arrange a meeting in the next few days to sit down further here in the office."
You know the topic is now closed for discussion. "I'll be back in touch and we can set something up," she tells you and she settles again in her chair behind the desk.
"Well what about our 3 o'clock?" You're here right now and God knows after this shit you don't feel like coming back to this office for what was originally your scheduled conversation.
"Don't worry about it," she replies now searching around on her desk for a pen. "We can talk later about it when we reschedule." She is not meeting your eyes. "Check your email later and we'll figure something out then."
She finds the pen and begins writing something down on a pad of paper which you take as your signal that it's time to go.
You don't look back as you walk out and shut the door behind you.
/
You walk into the floor housing your colleagues and head to your desk. You were just here on Saturday and not much has changed. Still a bunch of letters on the desk and paperwork too. You always hated doing the paperwork behind the scenes. Sam was much better at that part of the job and you think selfishly it might be good for him to ease back into it when he can by spending his first few days back behind the desk.
He'd appreciate your humor about it.
But only if you fed him Breadstix. A lot.
You check the clock on the wall and it reads 1:10p. You had well-wishers galore on Saturday when you came but now everyone is back to it. A quick smile and nod of the head acknowledging your presence is all you get and frankly all you expected. This is a job and luckily most of your colleagues are dedicated to doing theirs well. Every one of course except for Karofsky who looks across the room at you with his typical disdain. "Had enough rest Pierce?"
Jesus his voice is like fucking nails on a chalkboard.
"Funny Karofsky." You're in no mood. "Guess that means I'll be picking up and solving the cases that landed on your desk in my absence considering I am sure they are still lying there without result."
He knows that his mere words are enough to make you want to punch someone in the face. You try to tell yourself that to keep you from responding to his goading but you just aren't good at backing down. Sam is usually the buffer between you two but with him out Karofsky knows even better that pushing your buttons will result in an ill-timed response.
Ill-timed in this case because just as you are finishing your sentence, walking up behind you is your boss Will Schuester.
"Pierce, can I see you in my office?"
You follow him and shut the door behind you, hearing the low chuckle of Karofsky as you do.
"Fucking asshole," you murmur under your breath as you take a seat across from Schuester's desk.
"How are you Brittany?" You could have guessed this conversation was coming but you really don't feel like having it.
"I'm fine Will," you tell him with as much sincerity as you can muster. "Glad to be back here and ready to get started back on my cases."
"Well that's what I wanted to talk with you about," he continued sitting a little straighter in his chair. "I want you to take your time and ease back into it. I don't want you to feel like you have to save the world. I have had detectives under my direction have this kind of trauma and they might think they are perfectly fine and one day they discover that's not the case. Or they might seek solace in other ways. Harmful ways."
You know he means well but you just aren't in the frame of mind to hear all this. Sometimes he seems like he wanted to be some motivational speaker and not the head of a police department.
"Just put in a few hours today. Do some paperwork, ease back into it. I don't want to see you here past 7, ok? And no new cases this week."
"I promise you Captain, I am ok." Maybe if you make it sound more formal then he will lighten up and let you out of here and get back to doing your job.
He acts like he didn't hear you. "Are you seeing the psychiatrist?"
You again are caught off guard but still quick to reply with a yes.
"Good," Will continues, "I think that they have you set for an appointment every week or more if needed for the next six weeks. I will be kept informed as to the progress you are making but only as an outsider. Anything you say in your meetings will Dr. Strathorn is strictly confidential."
'No shit' you think to yourself. It seems even your superior has no clue what's really going on.
"Thanks Will for your concern, truly, but I am ready to get back to work." You tell him and shift to the edge of your chair as if to signal you are ready for the conversation to be over.
Either he understands your body language or he's done with you too because he simply responds with "Then get to it."
You keep the door open when you leave and head back to your desk.
Breadstix or not, Sam would never forgive you. You better get some of this paperwork done.
/
You've been at the stacks of files for nearly three hours and it seems like you haven't made a dent when your cell phone dings signaling the arrival of a text message. You stretch and welcome to break as you pick up your phone and allow the fingerprint sensor to do its job unlocking to the message screen.
"Cherokee Park. 8p Tuesday" reads the first line.
"Important," reads the next.
The number is still blocked.
You stare at the message for a minute wondering if this is indeed the same person who sent you the text last week that you didn't get to because you were otherwise engaged. And by engaged you mean trying to determine where the blood was coming from while your partner was on the ground.
"Artie?" you wonder as you make a note on your phone's calendar and jot down a quick line in your notebook.
Like all detectives you use technology where you can but there is something about the convenience of a small pad of paper. Stereotypical but true nonetheless.
You don't think it could be anyone else but Artie given that is your usual meeting spot but you are a bit confused - he never sends his messages to meet through a blocked number. You'll have to make sure you use caution tomorrow night given everything going on.
Should you let Santana know? You consider that for a moment and determine a quick email later tonight when you are home and settled would be appropriate. You don't want to risk it from the computers here at the office. 'Good job Brittany,' you think to yourself. Way to follow orders.
You put the phone back down start typing again at your keyboard. Only a few more hours of this shit and you can go home.
/
The clock reads just after 8 p.m. when you put your bag on the floor next to your bed and flop back on it. Your feet are hanging off the edge but you can't really move. You're utterly exhausted from what was only the equivalent of a half day at the office. That many hours of straight paperwork is enough to fog your brain - it's a lot different sitting at a computer screen for six hours then beating the streets all day long. It might not make sense but it's not how your mind works. Regardless you are shattered.
It's not even dark yet but you close the blinds in your apartment and turn on the kitchen light, opening the fridge to see little in the ways of edible food there. You simply don't feel like preparing anything and were hoping against hope that you had some leftover anything. No such luck.
You grab a bottled water and take yourself back to your bedroom, draining half the contents on your way. You sit in bed with leave the light on and pull your hair out of the high ponytail you were sporting in the office. You feel lighter already and you grab the remote to turn on your TV.
Flipping channels reveals nothing on and you wonder if you shouldn't go down to Seasons and grab a bite. Or a drink. Or both. You feel so tired though you just don't even want to move.
Thirty minutes goes by and you're only half watching some show about high school outcast students that sing and dance and you feel yourself starting to drift. You reach over to turn off the light and accidently knock your long ago consumed water bottle off the nightstand and onto the floor. Groaning you turn onto your side and reach down to pick it up, randomly feeling because you're trying to balance your body on the bed when you take hold of the cord that holds your laptop.
Remembering that it's there wakes you a bit and you pull it up to email Santana about the meeting at the park tomorrow. You log in and open your account to check your messages. Your inbox shows there is a new one waiting for you.
You open it while your adrenaline kicks starts your heart again. You're definitely awake now.
Again, no salutation is present but the message makes you almost drop the laptop.
"Maybe it's not such a bad idea. Breadstix? 9?"
You hardly remember your reply to the email other than it was an affirmative.
You grab your phone, keys and wallet and head out the door as fast as you can.
/
She is already been seated at a booth when you come in. Breadstix closes at 10 during the week so you know this won't be a long drawn out dinner but you don't care. You'd take the opportunity to sit with her across a table on equal ground for 5 minutes if that was all you could.
She has a glass of red wine and she is taking a small sip when she notices you walking toward the table. She holds the glass to her lips for just a split second too long, not drinking it but not putting it down either. Because she is looking at you. She seems to gather herself as you sit in the booth across from her, finishing the swallow of the wine and placing the glass on the table.
"I am glad you were able to make it, Brittany," she says, taking the red napkin that is sitting beside her fork and placing it lightly in her lap.
"I am glad you changed your mind Santana," you reply to her as you echo her movements with your own napkin.
She chuckles lightly and swirls the wine in the glass as if she was still trying to release its flavors. "Well I guess I can ask you what's good here huh?" She is obviously alluding to her private knowledge of the amount of time you have spent here with Sam. Almost like she is trying to make light of the situation that you both you know are in.
As if to somehow emphasize the point, the waiter picks this exact time to come up to the table and smile at you knowingly. "Hello there," he says to you, flipping out his little pad to take your drink order.
"The usual?" he asks referring to your typical unsweet tea. You come here when you're on duty so you have never ordered anything alcoholic. Tonight is different. It's not just work tonight.
"Actually, I'll have the same as my friend here," you tell him as you nod toward the wine that Santana is again taking a small sip from. She arches her eyebrow in response to your statement but manages to wait until the server walks away to get your drink before commenting.
"I didn't know you drank wine."
You smile at her slightly, feeling a little flirty when you reply. "For every one thing you know about me Santana there are two that you don't. Not everything can be gleaned from a report."
She doesn't respond and doesn't need to because the waiter is setting down your wine moments later.
"Do you ladies know what you might like for dinner tonight?" He is pulling out the pad again and you get the sense that he is rushing you a bit since you are one of the last tables to have patrons and are certainly the newest ones to sit down.
"Why don't you order for us?"
You are a little taken aback by how bold you are in saying that to Santana but end up being pleasantly surprised when she asks about the specials and proceeds to getting you the minestrone soup and the broiled lobster oreganata. She also requests the penne alla vodka and a Caesar salad – hold the anchovies - for herself.
"Will there be anything else," the waiter asks after he has complimented Santana on her choices.
She eyes you from across the table.
"Would you care for the shrimp cocktail as an appetizer?," she asks inquisitively.
"Only if you're buying," you reply as you mentally remind yourself this is not a date.
Santana's smile widens like she is the only one in on a private joke but tells the waiter that you both will skip the appetizer option.
And with that he is gone and you find yourself not knowing exactly what comes next.
Santana looks at you from across the table. She's still in her suit from this morning but she has taken the jacket off to reveal a simple white blouse that frames her beautifully. The necklace with the silver ball is in plain sight.
You start there.
"Where did you get the necklace," you ask her as your hands fidget in your lap. "I notice you always wear it, at least the times that I have seen you."
"My abeula," she replies and for a moment it seems she is not going to say much else. But Santana takes a slight breath and continues. "She and I had a falling out when I was in high school and didn't speak for a long time. One day – I remember I was 22 – I had a package in the mail. In it contained a letter from my abeula asking me for forgiveness and the necklace. She wrote and told me that the necklace symbolized her love for me – a circle that never ends. I called her immediately and we talked for hours and I went home to see her a few weeks later. She died about 2 months later. Neither she nor my parents ever told me she was sick. I mourned her a long time and regretted all the moments we missed but I was grateful for the time we spent together and I guess that's what matters in the end."
"And you're right," she told you picking up her wine glass for another drink, "I never take it off."
You are fascinated that she has told you something so obviously personal and meaningful to her but you certainly aren't complaining.
You sit for a moment in a comfortable silence before telling her it's her turn for a question.
She looks you directly in your eyes and tells you without hesitation. "No Brittany, this is your night. You can ask me anything you want."
You can't believe she is willing to be so forthcoming with you but you aren't going to pass up this chance. You spend the next 20 minutes firing off question pertaining mostly to factual information – where did she grow up, go to college, how many siblings did she have. Things without a lot of emotion behind it. You don't want to push your luck and you by the time you have finished your soup and she her salad you feel like you have an evolving background on one Lt. Santana Lopez.
The main course comes and with it so do the main questions.
"How did you get involved in you present occupation," you ask her keeping your voice low.
"That is a long story," she replies wiping her mouth with the napkin as she places her fork down. "And the restaurant closes too soon for me to finish it."
"Not avoiding the question though right?"
You want to make sure you aren't losing any ground.
"Absolutely not," she tells you as she takes another sip from her second glass that she ordered between the arrivals of the courses.
You can't believe how fucking beautiful she is. How refined. How endearing you find her when she looks at you and asks how you are enjoying the meal.
"Delicious," you tell her. "Do you cook?"
Santana laughs at your question and therefore you take it as a no. "I only know how to make two things," she tells you as she again picks up her fork to twirl the pasta around. "A mean enchilada dish and a helluva Chinese stir fry."
You both banter back and forth as the wine takes hold and the food is consumed. You realize before you know it that both of your plates are empty and the wine in the glasses nearly gone. You don't want the time to end. Maybe if you keep asking questions it somehow won't.
"What do you do for fun?"
"I don't think I do anything for fun Brittany," she tells you as the waiter comes and clears away the plates. You can tell he wants to get you both out of there because he doesn't even mention dessert. And while you don't usually indulge in sweets after a filling pasta meal, you would have chosen to get some tonight because it would mean more time with Santana.
"Come on Santana," you smirk, "You have to do something you enjoy outside of work." You know that she like to sing but you aren't about to bring that up.
"I don't have the time for fun often but when I do I enjoy a good meal with good company." She blushes a little at the comment and looks down at her glass stem like it has something of interest to note.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" You feel sick asking but you want to know.
Santana's reaction is one you did not expect. She doesn't say anything but you can see she is uncomfortable that you have asked.
"I think that is all we have time for tonight," she tells you as she sits back and swallows the last little bit of wine in the glass. Her demeanor has changed and you're not sure why you've hit a nerve – you only know you have.
You try to deflect a little and tell her "I appreciate your telling me these things. That you trust me to know more about you. I just want to know your world Santana. I want us to be beyond secrets."
She looks at you with her hands clasped under her chin "I agree to the no secrets, Brittany. But I would like your commitment to that as well."
You are getting ready to ask her exactly what she means by that when your waiter picks that moment to come by and sit the bill between the two of you at the table. You notice Santana reaching into her purse and pulling out her card to pay. She slides her card onto the table by the bill.
"No, let me get it," you tell her reaching your hand out in the gesture.
"You are," she tells you and lifts her hand off the card fully revealing it.
You cannot hide the blush – or the surprise – when you see the card reads Brittany S. Pierce on the front of it.
It's your card. The one that you couldn't find the next day after you went to the bar 'Nowhere'. When you followed her there and when you heard her sing. And when you saw the man embrace her after the song was over.
You reach out and lay your hand over it as if hiding it now can somehow erase the fact that she knows you were there.
You are shocked even further when you feel her lay her hand on top of yours. You inhale a little too sharply. Your hand feels like it's on fire. It is an exhilarating feeling, her soft skin against yours, one of her fingers actually slipping between two of yours in the process.
Like she was holding your hand.
"Next time you want to check up on me Brittany," Santana leans into the table to finish but keeps her hand right where you want it. Her voice is the sexiest thing you have ever heard and you couldn't take your eyes away from hers if you tried. She finishes with her hand slowly retreating from yours….
"Be a little more discrete."
/
You don't know what to say as the evening is ending. After paying the bill with your other card since you had already cancelled the one she gave you back you tell her you're sorry.
"I probably didn't give you a lot of choice," Santana admits with a sigh as she picked up her purse and suit jacket.
"I promise you that I won't do it again," you tell her as you slide from the booth.
She stops and looks at you knowing you mean what you say. "I know Brittany. I trust you."
"Why?" You ask because you are truly curious. You have given her no reason to trust you so far.
But you are even more taken aback by her reply.
"Because I choose to."
You both walk out of the restaurant toward your respective cars and it turns out you parked close to her black Range Rover. You are unlocking yours with the chirp of the key fob when you remember that you wanted to tell Santana about your meeting tomorrow at Cherokee Park. But when you turn around she has already shut the door and turned the engine over.
You don't have the heart to get back into a full blown work mode after all the progress you feel you have made tonight. You can email her tomorrow. But the night feels unfinished so you manage to knock lightly on her window before she starts to pull away.
She rolls it down slightly and you feel the heat on your face when you tell her.
"I choose to trust you too Santana."
She smiles brightly at you and you know you have made her happy. And that choosing to trust her you have crossed some line in this relationship. The knowledge makes you happier than you should be. You are so screwed here. And you know it.
"By the way," you stop her again because you just can't help yourself. "I don't know what you like to do for fun but I hope it's singing," you smile as you finish, "because you sure are great at it."
It takes you only a few moments to get into your car, latch your seatbelt and start it up. It's only then that you notice Santana is still staring at you, her mouth as open as it was when you finished your last sentence.
You still manage to drive off first.