I do believe this is again the longest one yet. It's like I'm in competition with myself to see how crazy I can be.
If I keep doing the mega-chapters, there will probably be about 3 more. Ten seems like a nice round number to end it on. Already, though, I'm not ruling out the idea of some kind of sequel or companion piece. This particular story has to end soon, because everything Brittana-wise builds toward the last scene, and I can't drag it out forever. But I've gotten so attached to the characters and this scenario/setting that I might still want to return to it in some form. I love the way writing it out makes it so real in my head, like the spin-off I hoped to see.
I've been so overwhelmed by the reviews... I can't thank you enough for that. Doing this has taken up a lot more time than I expected, but getting feedback and knowing that people are enjoying it makes it so worth it. Thank you!
Chapter 7
"A teacher!" Rachel shouted, watching Brittany's hand as she sketched on the pad of paper. "A kindergarten teacher!"
Without looking away from the drawing, Brittany shook her head.
"Um, Snow White! The Pied Piper! The old woman who lived in the shoe?"
"Just a few seconds left," Kurt warned them.
Brittany continued drawing, casting Rachel an impatient look.
"Jesus!" Rachel called out, smacking the coffee table with premature triumph. "It's got to be Jesus." But again Brittany shook her head.
"Time's up," Santana declared with a satisfied smirk, reaching out to grab the score sheet. "No points this round."
Rachel kicked the leg of the table in frustration. Then she reached out and took the prompt card from where Brittany had dropped it. She turned it over, reading out loud, "Jim Morrison." Then she looked at the drawing again, incredulous. "Brittany, how is that Jim Morrison? What are all those little creatures around him?"
"Those are his muppets," Brittany told her, like it should be obvious.
"That's Jim Henson!" she exclaimed. Attempting to control her temper, she said in a striving-for-reasonable voice, "I thought you said you were good at this game."
"I am good at it," she insisted, shrugging. "I just keep getting stupid categories. It's like, why are there so many Jims? It's not even a cool name."
"Aw, sweetie," Santana said, kissing her shoulder in commiseration. "Even if it was Jim Henson, she still would have blown it." But then her competitive streak kicked in. "Okay, me and Kurt's turn."
Kurt passed her the stack of prompt cards, and she drew one from the top, then read it. With a poker face, she took the pad of paper and ripped off the top sheet, waiting until Rachel turned the tiny plastic minute-glass over before she began drawing on the clean one underneath. She made one line. Two lines. Part of a third line.
"A Streetcar Named Desire," Kurt said, sounding almost bored.
She smiled and tilted her head back in triumph, then gave him a high five.
"What?" Rachel exploded, standing up. "That's impossible! You two are cheating somehow, I know it... You're communicating by secret gaydar or something!"
"Is that not allowed?" Brittany asked, looking guilty. "Because I was trying to send you some earlier, but you did not pick up on it."
Kurt had a smug look on his face. He said, "You know, Santana, I do believe the more we drink, the better we are at this game."
"It's weird, right?" she agreed.
With a heavy sigh, Rachel grabbed the pad of paper away from Santana and sat back down. "All right, Brittany, focus," she said. "This is our chance to come back from behind." Checking the card she drew from the pile, she added, "Oh good, this is an easy one, you can do this." She waited for the start time, then hurriedly began drawing what looked like an elongated wedge or triangle.
"Unicorn horn," Brittany threw out.
Rachel shook her head, hard.
"Unicorn sword," she tried again. "Unicorn penis."
"There's no unicorn!" Rachel burst out.
"No talking," Kurt and Santana said at the same time.
Rachel bent back over her drawing, intense and determined. She added a vague roundish ball-shape to the top of the wedge, then drew tear-shaped drops in the air below it. As time ran out, she kept stabbing at these drops with the pen, as if she could transmit the answer by sheer force. Brittany watched her, silent and skeptical as Rachel grew even more frantic. Santana pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from cracking up.
"Time's up," Kurt announced.
"It's an ice cream cone! Brittany, how could you not get that? I made it so obvious... it's even melting."
"That's supposed to be ice cream?" she said calmly, examining the drawing. "Gross. I thought it was semen."
Flinging the pad of paper aside, Rachel crossed her arms. "I don't want to play anymore."
"God, you are such a sore loser," Santana told her, but without much interest. She was sunk deep into the couch cushions, holding her fifth glass of wine. Her head felt fuzzy, in the best way possible.
"That's okay," Brittany said quickly. "I have a different game we can play." As she said this she pulled a notepad out of the back pocket of her jeans and flipped it open. "It's called How Well Do You Really Know Santana Lopez?"
Kurt looked contemplative. "Ah, now would that be the Parker Brothers, or the Milton Bradley edition?"
Ignoring him, Brittany continued. "Rachel, you can go first."
Excited to be chosen first for anything, Rachel leaned forward intently. "Okay."
"Question number one," Brittany read. "What is Santana's favorite color?"
Rachel only thought about this for a few seconds. "Black."
At the ease with which she gave this answer, Brittany immediately looked annoyed. "Are you sure you don't want to go with red?" she pressed. "Or maybe purple?"
"No, it's black," Rachel insisted.
Grudgingly, Brittany made a notation on her pad. "One point."
"Yes," Rachel said under her breath.
"Britt, what is this?" Santana asked, confused. "What are you doing?"
"It's just a fun game I made up," she said, and then with barely a pause she forged ahead. "Question number two. How old was Santana when she got her first kiss? And who was it with?"
"Um... I don't know." Rachel cast her eyes about the room, as if maybe the answer would be lurking somewhere in the furnishings. "Twelve, maybe? With you?"
"Wrong," Brittany told her, satisfied. "She was six. And it was with her cousin Ricky."
"Ricky the drug dealer?" Kurt asked, giving Santana an ironic lift of his eyebrows.
"He wasn't a drug dealer then," she said in a defensive tone. "He was eight." She took another sip from her wineglass, but then realized it was empty. Wordlessly, she held it out for Kurt to refill, which he did, adding more to his own glass while he was at it.
"Question number three," Brittany continued. "If Santana was stranded on a desert island, what's the one item she would absolutely have to have with her?"
Rachel seemed daunted by the increasing complexity of the questions. "I guess it would probably be... her iPod?"
"Wrong again," Brittany told her. "It's a trick question. Santana would never be stranded on a desert island, because... I would rescue her, in my boat."
"Damn it," Rachel muttered to herself, as if this answer should have been obvious.
Santana looked at Kurt with a puzzled expression, wondering whether it was just the alcohol that made it seem like this game was absurd, or whether it really was absurd. In any case, she didn't currently have the motivation to interrupt, so she kept drinking and waited to see where things went.
"Question number four. What kind of underwear does Santana prefer?"
"Oh, I know this one!" Rachel said, excited. "Victoria's Secret v-strings... followed by hipsters in very close second place. And also a few pairs of granny panties that she refuses to get rid of."
Brittany looked up from her notepad in irritated disbelief. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Because the first few weeks we lived here, she didn't know how to do laundry," Rachel explained in an innocent voice. "She paid me to do it for her."
Brittany looked over at Santana, who seemed uncomfortable. "I know how to do it now," she said, sheepish.
With a disapproving look, Brittany returned to her notepad. "Okay, this one is worth double the points. Question number five. What is Santana's favorite sexual position?"
"Brittany!" Santana said, indignant.
"I... I don't know," Rachel protested. "How would I know? That isn't a fair question. This game is rigged."
"Five seconds," Brittany said, looking at her watch.
Determined not to give up without at least trying for the points, Rachel briefly considered and then shouted, "Top! It's got to be the top."
Pleased with this answer, Brittany gave her a sly, victorious smile. "You would think so, wouldn't you? But you would be wrong."
Finally, Santana leaned forward and snatched the notepad out of her hands. "Okay, I think that's enough of this game," she said, giving Brittany a pointed look that said quite clearly Have you lost your mind?
Brittany relented, but Rachel wasn't so easy to convince. "Wait, did I win?"
"No," Brittany told her. "But you did have almost enough points to qualify for the lightning round. Too bad, you could have made a comeback."
"Santana, I want to do the lightning round!"
"Forget it," she said firmly. "I don't even want to know how inappropriate those questions would be."
"This isn't fair, you never want to play any games that I'm good at," Rachel said in a martyred tone.
"You're not good at it," Santana told her. "And it's not a real game." Then, she seemed to consider for a minute, adding, "But okay, if you really want to keep going, Polly Pocket, then let's make it interesting. If you lose, we trade bedrooms."
"What?" Rachel said, shocked.
"You heard me. Because Britts and I were talking about it earlier today, and it occurs to us that since she's paying rent now, and we're both sharing a room, it only makes sense for us to have the biggest one. Right?"
Rachel looked alarmed. "Look, I realize things are crowded around here, but you can't have my room. I need all that space."
"For what?" Santana demanded.
"For... my talent."
Brittany was watching this back-and-forth with a vaguely satisfied look on her face, as if she were pleased with what she'd set in motion.
"You know what Rachel, I am so sick of your bullshit," Santana said now, standing up. But all the wine she'd drunk suddenly caught up with her, and she wobbled a bit. Brittany immediately stood up next to her and Santana grabbed her arm to stabilize herself, trying to do it in as dignified a manner as possible. She continued. "It's a holy freaking miracle that anyone can stand to live in the same building with you, let alone the same apartment. You..." she fished around for a clever remark, but her head was too buzzy. "You suck," she settled on, pointing her finger for emphasis.
Rachel rolled her eyes at the failed eloquence of this insult.
"Come on, Brittany," Santana said. "Let's go hang out in our room. Because right now, I'd rather be crammed in that dollhouse closet than spend one more minute up in here with these losers."
"Excuse me, what did I do?" Kurt asked in an offended voice.
Santana started toward the hallway, then turned back and aggressively grabbed from the coffee table the one wine bottle that was still half full, taking it with her. Brittany led her out of the room with her hand on the small of her back, casting a gloating look over her shoulder at Kurt and Rachel.
Rachel stood and watched them go, hands on her hips, shaking her head a little at the ridiculous way the evening had ended. "Fine... that's just fine! Go and sulk. You know, we're all making sacrifices here!" she called after them. "That's the price of cultivating stardom!"
When they were out of the room, she waited a few seconds and then turned to Kurt, whispering in a confidential way, "I really figured she would be a top, didn't you?"
His only response to this was to close his eyes and give a weary sigh as if he wished he was somewhere else, and then to empty his wineglass.
"Fever, till you sizzle...
But what a lovely way to burn
What a lovely way to burn..."
The minimalist music faded away as Santana finished up the last few lines of Peggy Lee's Fever. She smiled at the patrons as they cheered and then dipped her head slightly to acknowledge them. For some reason, this number was always a crowd pleaser. She managed to tweak it and make it just a bit sexier every time she performed it. Of course, it didn't hurt that she was wearing red. Red was her signature Friday night color.
Suddenly she became aware of something different about the restaurant, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and looking up over the tables, she realized that Brittany had just come in. It was downright bizarre how she could always tell, like there was actually some kind of magnetic pull between them that became stronger the closer they got to each other.
Stepping down from the stage, she gestured for her to join her. Brittany approached, smiling proudly. "I just caught the end," she said, giving her a quick hello peck. "I wanted to get here earlier."
"That's okay, you've heard 'em all before," she said. "I've got to get some new material." She looked around, noticing that Brittany was alone. "Where's Donnie and Marie?"
"They had some theater thing. I don't know, I wasn't really listening. We don't have to go though. They're not in it, they're just watching." Brittany bit her lip a little, then added, "Annnd it's a good thing, because... you and I have a stop to make on the way home."
"Oh really?" Santana asked, raising her eyebrows. "And where would that be?"
"I can't tell you yet, it's a secret," she said, looking pleased with herself. Reaching toward her, she gently adjusted a few strands of hair that were out of place near Santana's headband. "You'll just have to wait and see."
"Okay, fine," she said, amused. She looked behind her, where the guitar player still sat, having his cigarette break right on stage. He'd been asked repeatedly by Suresh not to do this, but clearly he didn't care. It was one of the things Santana liked about him. All of a sudden she had an idea, and she turned back and asked Brittany, "Hey, while you're here, you want to do a song with me?"
She looked at the stage, then at the nearly full audience at the tables. "I don't know," she said uncertainly.
"Come on, don't tell me a badass performer like you is getting stage fright," Santana said. In a coaxing tone, she added, "You better take your chance while Rachel's not here."
"Okay," Brittany finally agreed.
Santana led her up to the stage and introduced her to Stu, the guitarist. He gave her a silent salute. Stu was a man of few words, another thing Santana liked about him.
"You pick something," she told her. She left her for a few seconds while she went to grab another microphone.
After a moment of consideration, Brittany leaned forward and whispered something to Stu. He looked vaguely dubious, but he nodded, agreeing.
Santana set up the second mike, wondering how she was going to introduce Brittany this time, and whether she should keep up the pretense that they were simply best friends. She had a brief moment of dread, but then she was spared the dilemma when the music started. Stu wasn't one for preliminaries, which she was thankful for tonight.
Brittany waited for her cue and then began singing.
Children behave... that's what they say when we're together
Santana couldn't help laughing in delighted recognition when she realized what the song was. She watched Brittany, proud of her.
And watch how you play...
They don't understand, and so we're
Running just as fast as we can
Holding on to one another's hand
Tryin' to get away into the night
And then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say
Now she joined in on the chorus, harmonizing with her.
I think we're alone now
Doesn't seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound
They continued to the end of the song, which to Santana's surprise sounded unexpectedly good in the stripped-down, acoustic version. It was something she never would have thought of, herself. She made a mental note to get Brittany to help her with her set lists in the future. It would be nice to have someone with an open mind, someone willing to try any idea no matter how strange.
At the end, she threw all the applause to Brittany, then pulled her away from the stage, grinning at her. "You were so good."
"You didn't think it was too karaoke?"
"No, it was perfect. And besides, Tiffany is totally underrated."
Brittany smiled. "I've always thought so."
After Santana went to the back to grab her coat and pick up her check, they left. On the sidewalk, she took deep breaths of the refreshing cold air. It always felt great to get outside after performing, and it was even better when she had someone with her. They started heading toward the subway entrance, but then without warning, Brittany threw out her arm and got them a taxi.
Santana looked at her, admiring. "Look at you, hailing cabs like a boss. You're better at that than I am."
"I've been practicing," she admitted. "It's all in the shoulder. But, they do get kind of mad when you make 'em pull over and you don't really want a ride."
Inside the taxi, Brittany gave the driver an address on west 44th Street. Santana narrowed her eyes, curious. "Is that Hell's Kitchen?"
"Mm-hm," Brittany said, but refused to elaborate further. She was being quite mysterious, which Santana found adorable. She tried to resist getting too cuddly with her in the backseat. Already, they'd found out the hard way that when it came to some immigrant cab drivers, homophobia was alive and well. You had to pick your moments. It wasn't always worth it.
The building they eventually stopped at was about ten stories tall, and seemed to be a nondescript apartment complex in a mixed neighborhood of housing, restaurants, and businesses. Santana insisted on paying the driver over Brittany's protest ("I wants to get my chivalry on," she explained to her), and they went inside.
In the lobby, Brittany led her straight to the elevator as if she knew the place well, punching the button for the ninth floor. She was doing that thing where she bounced on her toes slightly, trying to contain her excitement. Santana watched her on the way up, wondering what in the world was going on.
"It's a nice building, right?" Brittany asked her.
"Definitely," she agreed, and not just because it was the expected answer, but because it was true.
When the elevator dinged open, Brittany tucked Santana's arm into hers and led her down the hall. She stopped at the last door and knocked, and immediately from inside came a cacophony of barking. At that noise, Santana thought she began to see, at least, how Brittany had initially discovered this building. It must be on one of her routes. Because to everyone's surprise, she'd landed a job just a few days after declaring her intention to do so. For the past week, she'd been gainfully employed as a professional dog walker. She'd been a bit self-conscious when she first told Santana about it, insisting it was temporary, though Santana had assured her there was no reason to be embarrassed. It was sort of perfect, actually. The service had assigned her designated neighborhoods all over the city, which had helped her familiarize herself with New York in record time. Plus, the hours were flexible and the pay was good. Not to mention, she got to be around animals all day, which she loved.
The door was opened and a beagle exploded out, barreling into their legs. "Hi Grover!" Brittany exclaimed, bending down to smoosh his face. "This is Santana," she said, as the dog twisted and contorted itself in spasms of joy. "Santana, this is Grover."
"Hi," she said, but without making any motion to touch the thing. Then she felt like an idiot, because she realized there was a man standing in the doorway watching them. But how do you reply when you're introduced to a dog?
"Oh, hey," Brittany said, straightening up and noticing the guy, who looked like he could have just stepped out of a film about Woodstock. She seemed a bit puzzled. "Are Eric and Bonnie here?"
"They are," the man said, bobbing his head in a genial way. Suddenly a woman came up behind him and draped herself around his shoulders, burrowing into his long, tangled hair with a strange humming sound. "Step right in," he added.
Brittany went in first, making sure to bring the dog, and Santana followed her. Even though the hallway hadn't been bright, she stopped and waited for her eyes to adjust to the unusual dimness of the room. The only light seemed to come from a lava lamp, and in one corner, a small blacklight. There was an overpowering odor of incense, and beneath it, the green, pungent scent of marijuana. On the ceiling were glowing star decals, and there was the vague sense that the walls themselves were somehow tie-dyed, even though it was hard to make out any detail. Santana had the impression that she'd stepped through a portal into the sixties... or at least someone's clichéd idea of the sixties.
"So," the guy said in a mellow way, closing the door. "You girls swing?"
Brittany turned to him, answering politely. "Um, sometimes, when we're by a playground. But not as much as when we were kids."
Santana pressed her lips together and looked at the floor, willing herself not to laugh.
"Right on," he said, nodding again, pretending he understood. Now the woman took his arm and tugged him off into a corner.
"Brittany," she whispered to her. "I think he meant a different kind of swinging."
"Oh," she said, not concerned. "That's okay, I don't who know those people are, anyway. But come here and look at this."
She drew her over to the window, pulling back a curtain that appeared to be made of some kind of burlap, or maybe (probably) hemp. "Look at this view. Isn't this awesome?"
Santana stared down at 44th Street, nine stories below, and then out at the city rising up around them. "Yeah," she agreed. "It's amazing. But..." she looked back into the dim, smoky apartment, bemused. She started to ask What the hell are we doing here?, but settled instead on the more neutral, "What is this place? Who lives here, Britt?"
"Well..." she said, looking secretly excited again. "We do." She paused, then added, "If you want to, I mean."
Santana waited a second, thinking she'd heard wrong. "What?"
"This couple that lives here now, Eric and Bonnie? They're moving to South America for a year to live in this commune, and so they're gonna sublet the place. And they asked me if I knew anyone who might want it. So I said... that we might."
"Brittany," she said, still shocked. "I mean, it's a great location and everything... it's so close to school and work, but..." She looked around again, mentally measuring the space. "This is a studio. There's no way four people could fit in here."
"Four?" Brittany repeated, looking at her like she was crazy. "No, I meant us. You and me."
"Oh." Her eyes widened, and the shock of a few seconds ago was nothing compared to what she felt now.
"I started thinking about it the other night, when Rachel wouldn't trade rooms. It's just... you're always fighting with them. So I thought... I don't know, maybe it would be good if we had our own place." She paused, then added, "That song was kind of my hint, but you didn't pick up on it. That's okay, I was being pretty sneaky."
Santana's mind raced. She couldn't even begin to make sense of all the emotions that rushed at her at once - alarm, joy, bewilderment, pride, terror, regret, and plenty of others that no labels would even begin to fit. To cover up her confusion, she turned back to the window, pretending she wanted to see the view again. The question that swam up to the top of her consciousness, beating out all the others for her attention, was What does this mean? What did it mean that Brittany wanted them to live together, alone? What did it mean that she was willing to sign a lease for an entire year? Did she want them to be roommates, the way they'd always planned in high school? Or did she want them to move in together, in a very different, very grown-up sense? Santana wanted to ask her, flat-out, but she wouldn't let herself. The last time she'd asked a question like that, demanding specifics, the answer had nearly broken her heart. This time, she was determined to be more careful.
Next to her, she could feel Brittany growing impatient and then a bit dejected as she waited for her to say something. "It's okay if you don't want to. It was just an idea."
She continued to stare out the window, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was one of those crucial moments in life where one wrong move could change everything. She didn't want to look back later and realize she'd made the wrong decision. What if she never got another chance like this? And after all, what was there to be afraid of, really? This was Brittany. This was the person who knew her and loved her more than anyone else in the world, despite their time apart, despite their occasional inability to comprehend each other. What was she so scared of?
Finally, she turned back to her, taking a deep breath and letting it out, her eyes glowing with anticipation. "Let's do it."
Brittany stepped forward, hopeful. "Yeah? You sure?"
"I'm sure," she said, nodding. And if there was just the tiniest hint of fear in her expression, Brittany didn't seem to notice it. She leaned down for a kiss and pulled her closer, crushing Santana against her in her elation. Santana kissed her back, throwing her arms around her neck. She laughed against her lips and felt the breath squeezed out of her, her feet leaving the ground as Brittany lifted her up briefly against her own body.
"Okay, there's one more thing you have to see," she said, relinquishing her grip. She grabbed her hand and pulled her over to a section that was partitioned off from the living area. They stepped through a retro beaded curtain in the doorway, the strands clicking behind them. "Look how big the bed is!" Brittany whispered, squeezing her fingers.
This area was just as dark as the other one, but there was some illumination coming in from the bare window. Just below it was a queen-sized bed, covered in some kind of vintage paisley-patterned quilt. It was about three times as big as the twin bed in Santana's room in Sunset Park. She gave Brittany a sly grin, squeezing her fingers in return. Obviously they were both thinking the same thing.
A wedge of light suddenly pierced the room as a man emerged from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel.
"Brittany, greetings!" he said. "I was hoping you'd stop by. So, what do you think?"
"Hi, Eric." She glanced at Santana one more time, as if to be absolutely certain, then said, "I think... we're gonna take it."
"Righteous," he said. Now a woman clad in a tiny silk robe came out of the bathroom and draped herself over him, sucking on his earlobe. As if he didn't notice her, he continued. "As you can see, it's all furnished... everything stays behind. Won't need it where we're going. We'll only be taking spiritual baggage." Misinterpreting their current object of interest, he said in a regretful way, "Unfortunately, there's just the one bed."
"Actually, that... won't be a problem," Brittany told him.
He seemed puzzled at first, then his eyebrows lifted with realization. "Oh, you two together?"
Brittany looked at Santana again, seeming unsure whether or not she should answer the question, or what she should say.
After a slight pause, Santana smiled a little. "Yeah." She continued to watch Brittany's face, even though she was speaking to Eric, "We are." Brittany gave her a soft smile in return, grateful.
"Even better," he said, bringing his hands together in a weird prayer-like gesture and then bowing his head at them. "Much luck on your journey." Then he dropped the pious tone and said in the voice of a normal thirty-something guy, "Hey, let me go get Bonnie! She's gonna be thrilled." He pushed through the clicking beads, and the woman drifted after him like she was in some kind of trance.
Santana watched them go, then turned to Brittany, a strange expression on her face. "That wasn't Bonnie?" she asked in a low voice.
Brittany gave a quick shake of her head, adding no further comment.
She looked at the bed again, disturbed. "We are so disinfecting that mattress."
The next day, Saturday afternoon, the two of them sat across from Rachel and Kurt in a booth at the corner diner near their building. Santana was anxious, and she was pissed at herself for feeling that way. She took a sip of her coffee, wishing it was decaf. But they were such regulars here that the waitresses always brought her a cup when she sat down, whether she ordered it or not. It occurred to her now that she wouldn't be coming here much longer, and as silly as it was, she felt a tiny pang of regret. Of course, they'd find someplace near their new apartment, but it would mean starting all over again as strangers.
"Oh, Goldie Hawn!" Rachel said, pointing to a picture in the tabloid magazine that she and Kurt had spread out between them on the table. "I saw her the other day in Times Square."
"You did not," Kurt told her.
"Yes I did. Or maybe it was Gilda Radner."
"Gilda Radner?" he asked, incredulous. "She's been dead for twenty years."
"Well, then it probably wasn't her," she said, as if this proved her point.
Santana watched them, equal parts irritated and entertained. "Are you gonna finish that pasta, or not?" she asked.
Rachel glanced up and then pushed her plate across the table. "I don't understand how you can eat so much."
"It's called PMS," she said, picking up the fork. "One day you'll be a woman, Rachel, and then you'll understand."
Shaking her head in tolerant disdain, she went back to her magazine.
The truth was, Santana felt the need to keep eating because it gave her something to do. Any minute now, according to their previously-agreed upon plan, Brittany would leave her alone here, and there would be nothing left to do but tell them. Why did it feel like such a big deal? It's not a big deal, she insisted to herself.
"Okay, I'm out," Brittany suddenly said, as Santana had known she would. She dragged the straw around the bottom of her glass and slurped up the last of her milkshake, then stood up, pulling her coat on. "Mr. Chen from the laundromat asked if I would come and do some filming to try to catch his ghost on tape. Personally, I think he's crazy, because... what kind of ghost would want to hang around a laundromat? If you're dead and you can go anywhere you want, you should hang out somewhere cool, like Chuck E. Cheese."
"Well... maybe this ghost has fond, romantic memories of the laundromat," Kurt said thoughtfully. "Maybe he used to meet his lover there or something."
The three girls all briefly paused in what they were doing and stared at him.
"It's just an idea," he added as he raised his iced tea, uncomfortable now.
Brittany leaned back into the booth for a quick kiss. "See you at home."
"Yeah." They exchanged significant glances, and Brittany seemed to be telling her Good luck. She headed out the door, and Santana watched as she passed their window and continued on down the sidewalk.
"Mary-Kate Olsen is losing weight again," Rachel said, still absorbed in the magazine. "One of these days she's just going to disappear. Oh, you know what I recently learned?" She leaned forward onto the table intently, gesturing with her hands. "They make this substance now, it's like Play-Doh, only you put it on your body in places where you need, shall we say, enhancements... particularly for those who are challenged in the posterior-area. They mold it in place, and then it dries and it looks just like real buttocks. All the celebrities are using it."
"That's insane," Kurt said, looking at her like she was speaking a foreign language. "Where do you hear these things?"
"It's true," she insisted. "It can also be used to smooth over problem nipples. Those are the ones that stick out too far."
Kurt shook his head at her a little, as if trying to clear the crazy from his vision, then he looked across the table. "All right, Santana, what's going on? I left that nipple remark wide open for you, and nothing. You're not getting sick, are you?" He reached over to feel her forehead.
"No, jeez," she said, making a face as she pushed his hand away. His fingers smelled like pickles. She decided, however, that she might as well use the opening. It was as good a time as any. After a pause, she added, "But okay, I do sort of have... some news. Something I need to tell you guys."
Rachel put the magazine down and brought her hand to her heart in the same motion. "Oh my God, is it cancer?"
With an incredulous stare, Santana demanded, "That's where your mind immediately goes?"
"Sorry." She composed herself. "Go on."
She took a deep breath, trying to think how to begin. "All right, look, the thing is, Brittany and I found this..." She stopped, correcting this to, "Well, actually Brittany found this really amazing studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It's pretty close to the restaurant, and to school. And even though the people who live there look like rejects from a Laugh-In tribute, it's shockingly affordable for midtown. So..." She stared down at her plate, not meeting their eyes, twirling one strand of spaghetti around the fork over and over. Why was it so hard to say?
Then she stopped for a second and seemed to collect herself, calling on the stores of attitude she always kept in reserve. "You know what, screw this, I don't have anything to feel bad about." Looking up, she faced them directly. "We're moving out."
They continued to stare back at her, blankly, as if waiting for some kind of punch line. After a few seconds she couldn't help but look away again, feeling guilty despite telling herself not to.
After the awkward silence continued for another beat, Kurt finally said in wonder, "Well. You... weren't kidding when you said you had news."
"When?" Rachel asked in a small voice.
"Next weekend. I know it's sudden. I mean, I'll still pay rent for this month. And next month too, if you need it."
Closing her magazine, Rachel smoothed the cover down in melancholy way, apparently trying to choose her words with care. "It sounds like you've already made up your mind."
"Yeah, we have," Santana said firmly. She made sure to say we and not just I.
"Congratulations," Kurt said, still with an air of surprise, but with the obvious desire to say the appropriate thing. "This is... quite the major life step. After all, living with someone is practically like getting married."
The words caused her stomach to flip, and she shook her head. "Don't say that. Especially not to Brittany, please." Then, realizing how odd this might sound, she quickly changed the subject, adding, "And you know, you guys could crash there sometimes, if you're in the city late or something. We'll still see each other."
The two of them were quiet again for a few seconds, both seeming to wait for the other to continue the expected platitudes. Santana felt a wave of annoyance toward them for not making this easier for her. But it was pretty much what she'd expected. They weren't the types who could take anything lightly. Though she also knew, deep down, that she would have been even more pissed off if they had. At least this was better than indifference.
Now Rachel shrugged a little, saying quietly, "So much for things not changing." The words managed to sound both wistful and bitter at the same time.
Damn her. As it happened, Santana had also been thinking about the conversation they'd had in the kitchen on the night Brittany arrived, and she'd been hoping Rachel wouldn't bring it up. But of course, she would have to.
"Yeah, well, when I said that, I didn't know this was gonna happen," she said in a sharp voice. "She just sort of blindsided me with it." Then, hearing these words out loud, she hastened to add, "But, like, in a good way."
"You're right, I'm sorry," Rachel said, genuinely repentant. "I don't mean to sound negative. It's wonderful for you... of course it is." She stared down at the table for a second, then blinked rapidly. "Sorry, it's just... I think I got some pepper in my eye, before. And you know what, they must be cutting up onions in the back." She stood suddenly. "Also, allergies."
"Rachel." Bewildered, Santana watched as she swept out of the diner, the bell above the door dinging accusingly behind her.
She turned her bafflement on Kurt. "Why do I feel like cancer would have made her happier?"
"She'll be fine," he said in a mild voice. "You know she has the emotional recovery time of a hamster."
Santana gave a deep, weary sigh, leaning back against the upholstered seat. "What about you?" she asked after a minute, almost dreading the answer. "Do you think I'm crazy?"
"Yes." He gave her a tiny smile. "But, you're in love. So it's a forgivable offense."
She rolled her eyes, but gave him a small, grateful smile in return.
Now he placed a twenty on the table to cover their tab, then slid out of the booth and stood waiting for her. She pulled herself up, feeling strangely exhausted. Kurt draped an arm around her in a casual way, adding, "I am, however, insanely jealous. It turns out that casting a wide dating net is not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. I hate it when my dad is right."
Leaning against him a little as they headed toward the door, she told him, "Well, you're gonna find someone amazing soon. There's no doubt in my mind."
"That's sweet of you." He seemed to be waiting for something else.
She let him open the door, and despite her best efforts, she couldn't help herself. "And I mean, if all else fails, you could start trolling the prep schools. I hear there's a bumper crop of hot boys in uniforms this year."
He nodded a little, following her out. "Annnnd there it is."
Sunday afternoon, and Brittany was leaning over the hand rail of the escalator as they ascended, peering in awe at the sheer spectacle of the department store spread out below them. Santana had one hand hooked protectively around her waist, which she felt a bit silly about, but she couldn't help it. Brittany was so mesmerized by the sight below that she didn't even seem to realize how high up they were.
"This is so much cooler than the Macy's at the mall in Lima," she declared.
Santana laughed a little. "Yeah, well, that's because this is the real thing, not some cheap-ass knock-off. It's the biggest department store in the world." She spoke in a proprietary tone, even though this was actually only the second time she'd been here. The first had been an ill-fated mission to help Kurt find a birthday present for Finn, but which had ended instead with the two of them buying shoes for themselves.
To her relief, Brittany finally straightened up and moved away from the railing. "Everything looks amazing. But, Santana, can we really afford anything from here?"
"Today we can," she said confidently, stepping off the escalator and taking her by the hand. "Today we are shopping in style."
Though of course, despite her assurance, they both knew they wouldn't be able to buy much. Furnishing the apartment was going to be a work in progress. They'd already accepted that they would have to pace themselves, maybe get a few things each week. But the most important item, the one that couldn't wait and the one they'd decided to start with, was a complete bedding set. As the first joint purchase they would make for their new home, they'd agreed that it was both symbolic and practical. Finding the perfect one was the primary reason they were here today.
But despite their intention to head straight to Domestics, they found they kept getting sidetracked by other areas. They let themselves be spritzed with perfume samples until they began to get nauseous from the fumes. They stopped for coffee at Starbucks, and then for ice cream at Ben and Jerry's. They tried on fur coats, despite the fact that they had no intention (or money) to buy them. Santana discreetly steered Brittany away from the jewelry section, hoping she wouldn't notice it. For some reason, the idea of the ring display made her nervous.
There was no distracting her, however, from the electronics. She made a beeline toward the cameras. "Wow, look at this," she said, approaching one that was perched all alone on a pedestal, as if it was too good to associate with the other cameras. She lifted it reverently and held it to her eye. "This is like, top of the line. I would kill for one of these."
Santana smiled a little. "I don't think that would be necessary." But then she glanced at the price tag. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, causing the guy behind the counter nearby to look up in disapproval. Maybe it would be necessary. The thing was worth more than two grand. Her thoughts immediately transitioned from how she could buy the camera for Brittany to how she could shoplift it for her.
Setting it back down carefully, Brittany said in a rueful tone, "Maybe someday."
"Okay, let's get down to business here," Santana said, guiding her back toward the escalator. "We need to focus."
They headed up to the sixth floor, but within minutes were distracted once again.
"Cruel," Santana said, gazing out with a yearning look at the vast sea of merchandise that surrounded her. "It's just cruel. Why would they put lingerie on the same floor as bedding?"
"Well, if you think about it," Brittany said, "They do sort of go together."
One item in particular caught Santana's eye, and despite her best intentions, she went straight to it, holding it up to admire. It was a sheer, powder-blue camisole, and she ran her fingers appraisingly down the silky material. "This would look soo good on you," she breathed. "Look, it's the same color as your eyes. Try it on!"
"Are you allowed to try this stuff on?" Brittany asked, looking mildly disturbed. "Because that seems kind of gross."
Shifting her gaze around to check for eavesdroppers, Santana said in a low voice, "Do you want me to put it in my purse?"
"Santana, no," she told her, taking the cami from her and placing it back on the rack. "Come on. We need to focus, remember?"
She let herself be pulled away, but she couldn't resist one more plaintive look back. "But it's so pretty," she muttered.
Finally, they found the Domestics section and, within it, the bed sets. The vast amount of choices seemed a bit daunting, but Santana soon zeroed in on one. She lifted the packaged bundle, peering closer at the comforter folded within. "Check it out, this one is super sexy," she said.
Brittany didn't seem as enthusiastic. "I don't know. It's a little... dark."
"Yeah, but... dark is sexy, right?"
Casting her eyes around the aisle, she moved a few steps away and stopped in front of a different set. "What about this one? It's nice and bright."
Santana put her choice down and came closer, skeptical. "It's got butterflies on it. And... are those ladybugs?"
"I think so. What's wrong with ladybugs? At least it's not hummingbirds, with their weird scary needle beaks. They act like all they want to do is get nectar out of flowers, but they're not fooling anybody."
"No offense, Britt, but I think if I had to sleep under that, I'd have nightmares about them crawling on me."
"Well... if I had to sleep under that black one, I'd have nightmares about swallowing poison."
Santana made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a laugh, surprised. "Fine. Let's just keep looking. We'll find something we both like." It occurred to her, for the first time, that maybe this decorating business wasn't going to be quite as easy or as fun as she'd anticipated. She called up a mental image of Brittany's room at home in Lima, and then her own, and tried to create some kind of imaginary mash-up of the two. It was virtually impossible.
They moved down the aisle, then onto the next one, nothing much jumping out at either one of them. "At least we can agree that these all suck," Santana said. "That's a start."
Suddenly she felt something brush her hand, something warm and sticky, and she yanked her arm up, recoiling away from it. Out of nowhere, a three or four-year-old girl had materialized. She stared up at them, her eyes big with unshed tears. "I can't find my mom."
Santana took a step back. "What do you want us to do about it? We don't work here."
"Santana," Brittany said, reproachful. She lowered herself onto her knees, right there in the middle of the floor, making herself only slightly taller than the little girl. "It's okay, sweetie. I'm sure she's around here somewhere."
Impatient but also a little fascinated, Santana watched.
"Where did you see her last?" Brittany asked gently.
The little girl took a deep, shaky breath, as if this question required some deliberation. "She was trying on underwears."
"See, you can try that stuff on."
Ignoring her, Brittany said, "Okay, then.. she's probably not very far away. What does she look like?"
"She's got black hair, and she's fat. Mostly she's fat on the front of her, but a little bit on the back too."
Brittany smiled, charmed. She stood up, taking the girl's hand. "Let's go look in the lingerie section."
Santana followed. "Shouldn't you just send her to the service desk or something? I'm sure they handle this kind of thing all the time."
Glancing back, Brittany started to reply, but before she could, a heavily pregnant woman rushed by the end of their aisle, then stopped and turned back. She put her hand to her heart, relieved, but then within a split second she looked furious. "Sophie! What did I tell you about staying put?"
The little girl ran to her and, unbothered by the sharp tone, threw herself around her mother's legs. Taking her hand, the woman gave a weary sigh and tugged her off toward the lingerie section again, casting a suspicious look back at Brittany and Santana.
"You're welcome," Santana said sarcastically, though the woman was already too far away to hear. She watched her walk away, disgusted. "God, why do people breed? Especially when they can't even keep track of their spawn. I mean, seriously, isn't that what those baby leashes are for?" She shook her head a little. "I hate kids."
There was a silence following her words, and she turned to find that Brittany was staring at her with a strange expression. Almost as if she didn't recognize her.
"What?" she asked, but with a sensation like cold fingers touching her heart. She'd never seen that look on her face before.
After a few more seconds, Brittany said, "Nothing." But she seemed disappointed.
Feeling like she should say something else, but having no idea what, Santana slowly turned and went back to the bedding display. Brittany rejoined her, but then her phone rang.
"Hello?" She was quiet for a few seconds, and Santana watched her, trying to figure out who she was talking to. "Oh. No, that's okay. I'm actually not very far from there. Yeah, got it. Thanks." She lowered the phone, regretful. "That was work. Someone called in sick, so they need me to take his route."
"Now? But it's Sunday."
"Yeah, but... dogs still have to poop on the weekend."
They began heading back toward the escalator, both a bit downcast. The afternoon that had started off so promisingly had deteriorated fast.
"We didn't even accomplish anything," Santana said as they headed down. "This is what Mr. Schuester must feel like everyday."
"We'll have to finish later." Brittany thought about this, then added. "Maybe we should just let Kurt decorate the place, and then surprise us with it when he's done."
"I really hope you're joking." The problem was, at the moment, she wasn't actually sure. Brittany had a closed-off, slightly distant air. It was a rare occurrence, and it scared the hell out of her.
They parted outside the store, Brittany heading toward Chelsea, Santana heading back home. She thought about accompanying Britt on her rounds, but she hadn't offered, and it felt weird to invite herself. Besides, she didn't think she could work up the enthusiasm to pretend to care about a bunch of rich, spoiled-ass dogs. They probably slept in bigger beds than she did.
The train home was oppressively crowded, standing-room only. When she emerged from the station in Brooklyn, it had begun to freeze rain, which only worsened her already foul mood. Not only was her hair coated in ice by the time she got inside the building, but then she had to spend ten minutes hunting down a lost pair of eyeglasses in the terrifying recesses underneath Pete's chair, because "the Russians" had hidden them there.
"Keep an eye out for them, Aunt Olive," he cautioned her as she headed upstairs. "There's one in the building right now!"
All she wanted to do was change into comfortable clothes, make coffee, and listen to some emo music while she tried to figure out if she should feel guilty for anything about this afternoon, and if so, what, exactly. So, of course, the last thing she expected or wanted to see when she appeared in her own bedroom doorway was someone already in the room. Someone standing on top of the bed, brandishing a metal tape measure. Someone who looked an awfully lot like... Jesse St. James.
Baffled, she stared in open-mouthed shock, wondering for a split second if she was hallucinating.
Finally he turned around and noticed her. "Santana." Totally unruffled, he hopped down off the bed, making it look like part of a dance, then allowed the tape measure to slither its way back into the case as he stepped forward. "Long time no see."
To her relief, her voice returned to her. "What the hell are you doing in my room!"
He glanced around, still calm. "Oh, just taking a few measurements. It's a bit on the small side, but I can definitely envision the potential. What would you call this color on the walls... charcoal, or slate?"
Still trying to make sense of his presence, she at least had no trouble calling up the attitude required for this asinine question. "Hmm, let's see, if I was talking to someone who wasn't trespassing on private property, I would probably call it black. But since I'm talking to you, I'm gonna go with None of your damn business."
Now came Rachel's voice, traveling toward the room from the kitchen. "Jesse? We didn't have any honey to put in the tea, so I used maple syrup instead, I hope that's..." She froze in the doorway, looking awkward. "Oh. You're home. I... I was under the impression that you'd be gone longer."
"Well, surprise, I'm not. Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" There was a dangerous edge to her voice, which Rachel responded to with increased chirpiness and enthusiasm.
"Santana, you won't believe this," she said, setting the tea down on the desk, "But as it turns out, Jesse just arrived here in New York last week, and he's currently in need of somewhere to live. What are the chances? It really is perfect timing, isn't it?"
Jesse looked pleased with himself. "I've been asked to join the National Show Choir Overseeing Board. N-Scob for short, you might have heard of it?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "I feel like it's so important to give back to the organization that's given me so many opportunities. Of course, they'll be paying a fairly significant salary, so in a way, they're also giving back, to me. It's a two-way street of giving."
Rachel beamed at him, captivated as always. "And as I've told Jesse, I can't make any promises, but there's at least the possibility that Kurt and I will be able to use our new connections to help procure him his very own NYADA try-out. We'd be able to perform together, the way we were always meant to... if only the fates hadn't been determined to keep us apart."
Santana started to reply to this nonsense, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed Jesse with the measuring tape out again, now using it, for some reason, to measure the length from her wardrobe to the window.
"Hey, excuse me Billy Bush, do you mind? I realize that you'll probably have to knock out a wall or two to make room for your Manilow shrine and your extensive collection of hair products, but it ain't gon' be happening today, got it?"
He came back toward them, that trademark feline glint in his eyes. "I'm sensing a little hostility here. Perhaps I should come back another time?"
Rachel opened her mouth to protest, but Santana beat her to it. "You know what, that would be just swell," she told him.
Sighing, Rachel gave up. "I'll show you out," she offered, as if they lived someplace that actually required showing out. She gave Santana a pointed look of reproach before she turned and headed toward the front door. Jesse swept past Santana with his smarmy smile, and she followed with crossed arms, needing to confirm with her own eyes that he was out of the apartment.
"So Santana, what's the story?" he asked in a casual tone. "Couldn't hack it in the big city? Going back home to get in touch with your midwestern roots?"
"You wish," she said with scorn. "It just so happens that Britts and I are movin' on up. We got a place in Manhattan."
"Oh, that's right, I heard about you and Brittany." He stopped in the entryway and turned to face her. "Word travels fast in show choir circles, especially when it involves outings. I'm sorry about that, by the way. Must have been a nightmare."
Momentarily thrown by what sounded like genuine sympathy, she shrugged it off. "Yeah, well, save your pity. I'm fine. Never been better."
He examined her, narrowing his eyes in thought. "You know, it's funny... But I have to say, I never really got a gay vibe from you."
She gave him her best faux-polite smirk. "That is funny. Because I never really got a straight vibe from you."
Waiting a beat, he gave her a tight smile. "It was good seeing you again."
She tilted her head and kept up the dimpled pretense of charm as she watched him leave.
"Rachel," he said, kissing her hand. "Always a pleasure." Rachel gazed at him adoringly, the spark between them palpable, and Santana had a sudden premonition. She is so going to sleep with him.
"Thank you for coming by. I'm sorry about..." Rachel said, glancing back in Santana's direction but not finishing the sentence. "I'll call you later."
Finally, he was out, and Rachel closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for a second as if steeling herself for battle.
Santana wasted no time on preliminaries. "You have got to be fucking kidding me, Rachel. That guy? That's who you're replacing me with?"
"You're not being replaced," she said, as if the idea was silly. "You make it sound as if we're casting a television show. In Season 2 the role of Santana will be played by Jesse St. James."
"Yeah, well, that's sort of what it feels like! You didn't waste any time, did you?"
"I told you, he just got here last week. It's simply a... a fortuitous coincidence. Believe it or not, Santana, not everything in the world revolves around you." She started toward the kitchen, with an air of being finished with the discussion, but Santana followed her.
"You didn't already give him a definite move-in date, did you?"
"Of course not," Rachel said, opening a cabinet above the microwave and staring into it, but as if she couldn't remember what she'd wanted.
After scrutinizing her for a second, Santana said, "You're lying. Mm-hm... I can always tell, because your nose looks smaller. You're like a reverse Pinocchio."
She slammed the cabinet without taking anything out. "All right, so what if I did? It has nothing whatsoever to do with you. You won't even be here by then."
There didn't seem to be any readily available comeback to this, since it was true. Santana fell silent, then decided to come at the issue from a different angle. Remembering Rachel's reaction in the diner the day before, she said in a less-hostile tone, "I thought you didn't want me to leave."
"I didn't. I don't. But if you want to know the truth, I've been doing some thinking, and maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world for you and Brittany to have your own space. The fact is, every time I walk into a room lately, I feel like I'm interrupting something kinky that's about to happen."
"That's crap," Santana said disdainfully.
"Oh really? What about last weekend, when I came home after voice lessons and the two of you were wearing your Cheerios uniforms?"
Now Santana's demeanor changed slightly, and she looked at the floor, laughing just the slightest bit as she admitted, "Okay, yeah, that day, something kinky was definitely going down. Only it wasn't about to happen... it already had. Three times."
Rachel looked appalled. "Not in the living room?" At the shifty look on Santana's face, she interrupted herself, raising her hand as if to block the offending image. "Never mind, I don't want to know." Now she distracted herself by taking out a loaf of her organic bread. "The point is, I think this arrangement will work out best for everyone." She dropped two slices into the toaster, adding, "After all, this apartment really isn't meant for four people."
Even though she knew this was basically true, it still hurt a little to hear it. Things hadn't been going that bad. Other than the occasional bruised egos and raw nerves, they'd been making it work pretty well, in her opinion. Now she wondered if Rachel was just rationalizing after the fact, or if she'd actually felt like this all along. "Why does it have to be Jesse, though?"
"Why not?" Rachel said. She took a jar of apricot jam out of the refrigerator. "He's an old friend. And he's ready to move in right away. You know that Kurt and I can't afford this place on our own. We have to have someone else."
Santana made an effort to sound thoughtful and rational. "Yeah, I know that. And, hear me out. I've been thinking..." As she said this she watched Rachel ineffectually trying to open the lid of the jar. "What if I just kept paying rent for a while? You know, in case things don't work out? It would be like... holding my spot." Losing patience at watching her struggle, she reached out and grabbed the jar. "Give me that." She twisted the lid off easily and handed it back.
"You're going to pay rent on two separate apartments? Santana, that's insane. You can't afford that."
"Sure I can," she said lightly. "I'll just show a little more cleavage at work. Tips'll go through the roof."
Rachel pulled her toast out and put it on a plate, looking confused. "You get tips for singing?"
She shrugged a little, looking vague. "Well, technically I just steal the waitresses'. But the cleavage thing still works. It puts people in a giving mood."
After seeming to consider this idea, Rachel shook her head and said, "No.. no, I can't let you do that. It doesn't make any sense. And besides, Jesse needs a place to live."
"Fine," Santana said, with an air of giving up. "But I hope you realize, that guy is bad news. He's gonna end up screwing you over again, I guaranfuckingtee it. So you better not come crying to me when it happens."
"Believe me, that's the last place I'd go." She took out a butter knife and made angry, forceful swipes of jam across the toast. "And you're wrong about Jesse. He's not like that anymore. He cares about me."
"Please," she sneered. "I've never known anyone in my life who is worse at judging people than you are. All someone has to do is flatter you, maybe throw in a little Barbra reference, and you'll fall for anything. Remember that guy last semester who offered you free head shots, and then expected you to sleep with him?"
"Yes, well... I didn't, did I?" Rachel said, all affronted dignity at the reminder. "And I still got the film negatives, so everything worked out fine. I like to think of it as a learning experience."
"I got the film negatives," Santana said, jabbing at herself for emphasis. "And I got rid of the guy, too."
"Which I thanked you for. Although, I'm still not sure how you managed to have him deported, considering that he was from Michigan."
"I have my ways," she said mysteriously.
Rachel gave a heavy sigh, staring down at the ravaged, unappetizing toast she'd made. Then, deliberating for a second, she opened the cabinet under the sink and dumped the whole thing into the trash. "Look, you can say whatever you want, but I don't care. I trust Jesse. People change."
With a cynical scoff, Santana said, "No they don't."
Now Rachel's temper flared up, and she turned around, facing her head-on. "All right, well... if people don't change, then I suppose I have no choice but to forever think of you as an evil, virginity-stealing slut!"
Taken aback, Santana gaped at her. "Okay, you do realize, don't you, Gizmo, that there is no one here to hold me back?" She took a few aggressive steps forward.
But instead of backing up, Rachel slammed her plate down into the sink, almost hard enough to break it, and came toward her. "You know what, you're right. So why don't you just go ahead and get it out of your system, once and for all?"
She stopped, surprised. "What?"
Rachel continued. "Go ahead! You've been wanting to kick my ass for years, haven't you? Well, now's your chance!" And with that, she reached out, and to Santana's utter disbelief, shoved her. Hard.
She took a dismayed step backward. "Rachel! What are you doing?"
She shoved her again, forcing her back another step. "Come on, let's see what you've got!" she demanded mockingly.
"Stop it!"
"Well?" She shoved her one more time, and now the refrigerator was against Santana's back, nowhere left to go. "What are you waiting for?"
Santana stared down at her, bewildered, feeling like she was witnessing someone in the grip of a demonic possession.
Rachel's face was only inches from hers now, and she waited, testing her. Santana leaned warily back against the refrigerator and returned her gaze, not breaking eye contact, but not otherwise moving. The bafflement in her expression gradually faded into mortification and then simply defeat. The moment stretched out.
"That's what I thought," Rachel finally hissed. She moved back a little, weary and disgusted.
Now, perhaps realizing that her bluff had been called, permanently and irrevocably, Santana's lip began to tremble. Her eyes watered. Her face crumpled. Then she wailed in a cracking voice, "Why is everyone being so meeean to meee?"
Rachel stared at her in shock, which soon turned to exasperation. "Oh for God's sake. And I'm the drama queen?"
Santana moved over to the tiny kitchen table and sank down into a chair, sobbing almost incomprehensibly, "Brittany's mad at me because I don't want to sleep under stupid butterflies and ladybugs, and because I can't stand kids, but I mean, why do they always have to be so awful? They always want something, and they're always under your feet, and they're always sticky... why are they always sticky?" She gave Rachel a helpless look.
"The ladybugs?"
"The kids! And..." she sniffled loudly. "And then I get back here and find out I'm being replaced with Jesse St. Douchebag! And I'm sure everyone'll just love him. He'll fit right in," she wept. "He'll know all your lame-ass Broadway songs, and he'll go shopping with Kurt, and I bet even Pete'll start rooting for him to turn Greta straight and run away with her..." Her voice hitched in her throat, and she stopped, out of oxygen.
Sitting down in the chair diagonal to hers, Rachel passed her a dish towel, which she blew her nose in. "Santana, don't you think you're being a little overdramatic? I know it's that time of the month, but this is extreme, even for you."
She drew in a shaky breath in, trying to get it under control. "Everything just... sucks."
"Well... I'm afraid I can't help you with the ladybugs or the kids, because I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. But..." She stopped, as if trying to think of how to phrase it. Gently, she went on. "If you're not one-hundred percent sure about moving, maybe you should talk to Brittany?"
Santana stared at the table. After a silence, she seemed to come to a decision, shaking her head a little. She looked up. "I can't. I have to do this." She paused, then added in a soft voice, "What if it was Finn?"
The mention of the name seemed to pain her, like someone pressing on a bruise. She met her gaze, but then looked away, nodding slightly in acknowledgement. Just above a whisper, she said, "I understand."
They sat without speaking for a few minutes, both looking exhausted. Santana's face was puffy and swollen, and she continued to dab at her eyes with the dish towel.
Finally Rachel drew in a deep breath and stood, as if resolving that moping time was over. She stood behind Santana's chair and put her hands on her shoulders, saying in a coaxing voice, like a babysitter with a particularly difficult charge, "I have an idea. Why don't we make some cupcakes? You know, for old time's sake."
"God, Rachel, not everything can be fixed by your stupid cupcakes."
She sniffled again, staring moodily at the table. After a few seconds, she seemed to reconsider. With a small shrug, she added in a petulant voice, "Okay."
Brittany lifted a framed photograph from the dresser in Santana's room. It was a shot of the entire glee club after their Nationals win, and she gazed down at it a bit wistfully. Then she wrapped it in newspaper and placed it carefully in the open box that was perched on the chair next to her.
"What about your clothes?" she asked. "Do you think they'll all fit in your luggage, or should we box some of 'em up?"
Santana was on the bed, stretched out on her stomach, fiddling with Brittany's phone. She had mild cramps, which she was using as an excuse not to do much of anything. "You have like seven texts from your cat. How is that even possible?"
"Santana," she repeated. "Your clothes."
"I don't know," she said, brushing it off. "Don't worry about it. I'll deal with it later."
"We've only got two days left." She opened up the bureau and gazed at the overflowing contents with a daunted expression. "I don't know how you managed to get so much stuff in just six months."
"Yeah, well, it turns out not having sex leaves a lot of time free for shopping." She was still looking at the phone screen. "Why do you have Finn's number in here?"
"I have everyone's number. I don't want to lose touch." Brittany began pulling clothes off their hangers, folding them.
"Hey, we should call him and tell him about Jesse." Without waiting for an answer, she hit send.
Brittany looked at her, disapproving. "Why would you want to do that?"
The phone rang a few times, then went to voicemail. The expression on Brittany's face put a damper on her plans, however. Instead of what she'd intended, she said, "Hello, Mr. Hudson? This is Bridget from the Main Street OB-GYN. We're just calling to let you know that, according to our records, it's time for your yearly mammogram. I know life can get busy, but please get back to us at your earliest convenience. Breast health is so important." She smirked, adding, "You have a nice day, now."
Brittany seemed to be trying to suppress a smile, as if she wanted to be stern, but couldn't quite manage it. "That was mean."
"Oh, come on, he'll know it was me." She considered, looking around the room. "But speaking of mean, what do you think about hiding a little surprise in here for Jesse? Like a dead fish, or something. He won't find it for months."
"You don't think that's a little immature?"
"Well, of course it is. That's what's so great about it."
"He's not that bad," Brittany said, holding up a black cocktail dress against her body as though to see whether she'd be able to fit into it.
"Yes he is! He's like what would happen if..." She appeared to be thinking, "If Sixteen Candles' Anthony Michael Hall had a baby with Edward Scissorhands' Anthony Michael Hall, combining their geekiness and assiness in one person. And then...then that kid grew up and had a baby with Liza Minelli."
Brittany looked confused. "What about Breakfast Club Anthony Michael Hall?"
She shrugged a little. "He's not in it."
"But, I think he'd make a really good dad."
"No, Britt, that's not..." She shook her head, cutting herself off. "Never mind. The point is, Jesse sucks."
Folding the dress and placing it on top of the pile, Brittany rolled her eyes the slightest bit, but didn't offer any further comment. It was obvious from her demeanor that she was getting just a little bored with this particular subject, which had come up continuously over the past few days.
After a few minutes, Santana said, "Why don't you take a break? You're making me feel guilty."
"If I keep taking breaks, we're never gonna get this done."
"Sure we will, we've got plenty of time," she said in her best sweet-talking tone. "Come over here with me. My back hurts." She said this last part as if making an offer, as if rubbing her back was a privilege to be handed out only to the deserving.
Brittany looked amused, but she gave in, draping the skirt she held over the open box. Climbing onto the bed, she stretched out next to her. She settled herself, then, reaching down with her right hand, she rubbed slow, firm circles on Santana's lower back, just above her hips.
Santana turned her head on the pillow to face Brittany, feeling the warmth from her skin. Their noses were practically touching. "You're so good at that," she murmured in a drowsy voice, suddenly finding it hard to keep her eyes open.
"It's because I have strong fingers."
Now she opened her eyes, and they both laughed a little, staring at each other, obviously thinking the same thing.
"Hey, you know what?" Brittany asked softly after a few seconds, nuzzling even closer. "Bonnie and Eric think they might have to leave Grover behind."
"Grover," Santana repeated in a puzzled way, her eyes closed again now. Then she remembered. "Wait, the dog?"
"Mm-hm. They're afraid the rainforest natives might try to eat him. So... I was thinking maybe we could get him one of those big fluffy dog beds that's shaped like a heart. And every time he sleeps in it, he'll think of us."
Santana considered this, trying to come up with a way to sound enthusiastic when she really wasn't, but she couldn't concentrate. "What's that sound?" she asked.
Brittany turned her head a little. "What sound? That laughing?"
Sitting up now, Santana listened again. "What the hell is so funny out there? Is he here, again?"
"Do you want me to go see?"
But she'd already stood up and headed toward the door, determined to investigate on her own. She went down the short hall and crossed the entryway into the living room, then stopped, staring. Kurt and Rachel were on the couch, watching TV. Jesse sat in between them.
"What's going on?" she demanded, though it was fairly obvious what was going on. She ought to be getting used to it by now, considering that he'd been here at least five times in the last three days.
"Hello, Santana," Jesse said.
Ignoring him, she stared at Kurt, waiting for an answer.
"Nothing's going on," he said. "Jesse stopped by to drop off some carpet samples. And we're just watching Ice Road Truckers. Which is riveting, by the way."
"But we always watch American Idol on Wednesday night."
"Well, Jesse thought we could try something new," Rachel said.
"Oh, did he?" Santana asked sarcastically. She felt rather than saw Brittany approach behind her, felt her hand gently touch her elbow, as if trying to act as a soothing influence. She appreciated the effort, but it wasn't working.
Jesse turned, glad to engage with her. "I chose this program because the steely ballsiness of driving on top of ice speaks to the machismo beneath my own polished exterior. Plus, there's the occasional avalanche, and who doesn't enjoy the musical thunder of falling rocks?"
She narrowed her gaze at him like he was some kind of fascinating yet ultimately repelling rodent. And for the second time this week, with the worst timing possible, her wit failed her. She tried for something clever, but there was nothing there. All she had in her arsenal was a withering, "Fuck off, Jesse."
"Santana!" Kurt said in an offended voice, standing up. "Could you at least pretend to be a civilized person for a few minutes? Is that too much to ask?"
"Oh, you're on his side now? Need I remind you about the time he told you that you sang like a girl?"
"Actually, I believe he told me that I failed at singing like a girl," Kurt corrected her. "But that was almost two years ago. I'm over it."
She looked around, realizing she was now being stared at by four people - two of them (Kurt and Rachel) annoyed, one of them (Jesse) smugly amused, and one of them (Brittany) simply embarrassed for her. She felt all of their gazes arrayed against her, and it pissed her off. With a bitterly muttered, "Whatever," she headed to the front door, yanking it open and going out.
To her relief, the door to the roof was unlocked. It would certainly tarnish her dramatic exit if she'd had to return to the apartment to look for the keys.
She climbed the stairs and emerged at the top, then briskly crossed over to the ledge at the front of the building. The icy wind cut through her thin hoodie, and she wrapped her arms around herself to conserve warmth. She looked out across the neighborhood, waiting for her rage to die down to a smolder. It did, eventually, but she didn't feel much sense of relief.
After a few minutes she sensed movement behind her. She turned a bit, already knowing who it was.
Brittany held out her coat.
"I'm not cold," she lied. She didn't even know why.
"Put it on." Her tone was firm, no-nonsense. There was no arguing with it. Santana took the coat and pulled it around her. She showed her weak protest, however, by not buttoning it.
"What's going on with you?" Brittany asked.
"Nothing," she insisted, trying to sound rational. "I just hate that guy. He's such a little weasel. How come no one sees it but me?"
Brittany kept watching her, as if waiting for more, but when there was nothing else, she said with reluctance, "You know I usually give you a free pass, because I'm Team Santana no matter what. But I have to tell you, you're really being a brat lately."
At these words, Santana looked surprised and wounded. It was ridiculous, she knew, just how much it hurt to hear Brittany say something like that. It shouldn't hurt so much.
She continued, as if she needed to justify the word. "You just... treat people however you want, and then you expect them to let you get away with it because that's just the way you are."
Santana thought about this. "Well... yeah," she said innocently.
Impatient at the fact that her point wasn't getting across, Brittany added, "Look, don't get me wrong, there's nothing you could ever say or do that would make me stop loving you. But... sometimes I wonder if I'll be the only one left. You can be really awful to people."
Letting this idea sink in, as depressing as it was, Santana met her eyes in acknowledgement. Okay, I get it, her face seemed to say.
Now that she had her attention, Brittany stepped forward even closer. "Talk to me," she urged her. "What is this really about? Do you not want to move in together?"
"Of course I want to!" she said. She swallowed, suddenly nervous. This was the conversation she'd been dreading, and she hadn't even realized it. "It's just... it's a big step, you know? It's a lot to process." And then, to her horror, she blurted out the words she'd been so determined not to say, the ones she'd been trying not even to think. "Living with someone is practically like getting married."
Brittany seemed mildly stunned by this concept. Her eyebrows went up a little, and she glanced to the side, as if hoping for moral support from an invisible companion.
Instantly, Santana regretted the words. She tried to backtrack. "Or at least that's how some people would see it. I'm not saying that I do."
As if trying to choose carefully among possible responses to this, Brittany was quiet for a minute. "Santana... remember what you were telling me last week?" she said gently. "About how we don't have to know exactly what we're doing right now?"
"I was talking about careers."
"Yeah, but... still. Shouldn't it sort of apply to everything? I mean, what's so bad about taking things one day at a time? I think it's working pretty well so far."
"Well, Brittany, I hate to break it to you, but when you sign that one-year lease, it's gonna make it a little harder to take things one day at a time." Her tone was a bit sharper than she'd intended.
Absorbing the truth of this idea, maybe for the first time, Brittany seemed to have momentarily run out of things to say. She looked tired. Turning to face out over the edge of the roof, she stared down into the street.
After a few seconds, Santana followed her gaze. An unmarked taxi had just pulled up in front of the building across from theirs. A stooped ancient-looking man with a cane got out on the left side, then circled around slowly and opened the other backseat door. An equally old woman emerged, clutching at his arm. The taxi pulled away, and the couple began making their halting, laborious way toward the front door of their building, leaning against one another. It seemed to take ages. Santana wanted to stop watching, but for some reason she couldn't. Finally, they reached the door, and the man opened it, standing back and waiting for the woman to pass through. Then he inched shakily forward after her, the two of them at last safely inside and gone from sight.
Santana glanced over at Brittany, wondering if she wanted to resume their conversation, but was startled to discover that there were tears in her eyes.
"What's wrong?" The unspoken question in her mind was What did I do?
But Brittany's mind seemed to be dwelling on a different plane, not focused on their issues at all. Still looking down into the street, she said thoughtfully, just above a whisper, "I was just thinking about how many doors he's probably opened for her. Like, thousands, you know? And then one day soon, it'll be the last one." She shrugged a little, continuing in the same soft tone. "And they won't even know it. They won't even know it's the last time."
Santana continued to watch her face, struck by how much wisdom there was in her eyes, in her voice. This was a side of Brittany she'd only had brief glimpses of in the past, like something in the corner of her vision that was gone before she could turn her full attention on it. In some ways it felt like she was just getting to know her. Maybe it felt like that to her too. Maybe it felt, to Brittany, like she was just getting to know herself. The city seemed to have that effect on people, for better or worse.
She wanted to respond in kind, to say something that suited the emotional tone. But despite the sincerity of the moment, there was something in Santana that instinctively shied away from it. Instead, she spoke with mild dryness. "Okay, that started out romantic, but then it got kind of morbid at the end." Then, immediately ashamed of herself, she closed her eyes for a second. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Why do I do that?
Finally, Brittany turned back toward her, seeming to take in her entire state of confusion at a glance. With the trace of a tolerant smile just touching her lips, she bent forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Santana's cheek. It was a kiss that said, It doesn't matter. I love you anyway.
"I'm gonna go finish packing." She headed back toward the stairs.
Santana remained where she was for a while, staring down into the street, lost in thought.
The Macy's bag she carried the next afternoon was so bulky that the handles didn't quite meet, even when she squeezed them together. She was forced to grip it with both arms, cradling it in front of her like a beer gut or a pregnancy. On the subway, other people bounced off of it like a shield, giving her dirty looks. Normally she would have been embarrassed, but today, she didn't care. She couldn't help but be pleased about what she'd bought. She felt good about it. In a weird way, she felt more at peace than she had all week.
She wondered if at least part of this was due to the fact that she hadn't slept well last night, and if perhaps the sleep deprivation was inducing a buzzed-like state. But she didn't really think that was it. It was true, she'd had a miserable night. When she'd finally drifted off the first time, she'd dreamed that she'd returned home to find an empty, vacated apartment and a note from Rachel with a big smiley face on the top that read "Jesse thought it would be fun if the three of us backpacked through Europe for a year. See you next January!"
Then, getting back to sleep for the second time, she'd had a nightmare in which she stood at a locked turnstile in the subway station. She swiped her metro card, but it wouldn't open. Up ahead of her and already on the platform was Brittany, holding the hand of a little girl who bore a striking resemblance to the one who'd sought their help in the department store. Also with them, absurdly, was Anthony Michael Hall in his Breakfast Club sweatshirt, looking like he'd stepped straight out of 1985. The three of them seemed to form some kind of family unit. They laughed and chatted together. As if from a great distance, she heard Brittany say in an amused voice, "Oh my God, it was a flare gun?"
"Brittany!" she'd called, trying to get her attention, needing to let her know her card wasn't working. But she didn't turn around. It was like she couldn't hear her.
Then the train approached, seeming to take forever, drowning out all sound. Growing more and more frantic, she kept trying to swipe her card, but nothing happened. The gate remained locked. Now the train was fully into the station. It screeched to a stop. The doors opened, the passengers exited, and the ones in the station began to board. "Brittany! Wait!" She'd thought about jumping the damn turnstile, but her legs felt like they were made of lead. Going underneath it seemed equally impossible.
Then the three of them had gotten into the car, all holding hands, linked by the little girl in the middle. Santana watched, helpless, as the doors began to close. Only the little girl, at the last second, seemed to notice her. She met her eyes, looking almost accusing, but then the doors whooshed shut and she was gone.
Santana had woken up in a cold sweat, anxiously groping around the small bed to make sure Brittany was next to her. After that, she'd held onto her for comfort until her heart rate returned to normal, then slid out noiselessly and gone into the kitchen to make coffee. The idea of going back to sleep wasn't appealing.
But despite the fact that she was tired after such a rough night, she was in a good mood today. Something in her seemed to have undergone a subtle change, an emotional shift that she couldn't quite explain, but that she could feel. Maybe it had been the talk on the roof last night. Maybe it had been the dream. Maybe it was the shopping trip today, or possibly none of them at all. Whatever the case, she was looking forward to getting home and seeing Brittany, then finishing the last of the packing. For the first time since Friday night, she didn't feel afraid.
Inside the building's foyer, she checked to see if Pete was awake. He appeared to be sleeping, but as she approached, he opened one eye, the grizzled brow arching up warily.
"Well?" she asked him in her best spy voice. "What's the lowdown? Any news on the Salamander today?" The Salamander was their agreed-upon code name for Jesse.
He shifted his recliner into the upright position, leaning forward and casting a few covert glances around to make sure they were alone. "Affirmative," he whispered hoarsely. "He was here for just a few minutes, around eleven. He brought a box. Didn't see what was in it, but I suspect phone-tapping equipment." He paused, adding, "I almost missed him, because I went inside to have my bowel movement, which took longer than usual today. It always does on Thursday, you know, because Wednesday night I have..."
"Okay, Pete, just..." She raised her hand to stop him, abandoning the secretive tone. "That's okay. Thanks." Then, as if she'd just remembered, she set down her large package and took out a smaller shopping bag from inside her purse. "Oh, before I forget... I got you these." She withdrew a brand-new pair of reading glasses, passing them to him. "Just in case the Russians hide the other ones again, now you'll have a spare set."
He unfolded them, his face contorted in surprise. After examining them from every angle, he finally put them on, exclaiming, "Jeepers!" He picked up the newspaper to try them out. "I'll be able to read the secret messages they put in the personal ads. They're so clear!"
"Yeah, that's because they're clean."
He gave her a rare, boyish look of frank happiness. "Thank you, Aunt Olive."
She smiled a little, and then, impulsively, bent and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. When she raised up, she considered trying to explain about the move, but she didn't have the heart to do it right now. In his addled mind, he probably wouldn't be able to make sense of it anyway.
Upstairs, she closed the front door gingerly behind her and listened. The place was quiet. She'd doubted Kurt and Rachel would be home yet, but she was still relieved to see she was right. She checked the living room and kitchen, but both were empty, so she headed toward her own room at the end of the short hallway. Brittany was sitting on the bed, staring at her laptop. She looked up. There was something the slightest bit dejected in her manner. "Hey." Noticing the bulky Macy's bag, asked, "What's that?"
"I got a little something for you," Santana said, pleased with herself. "It's sort of... I don't know, to make up for being awful."
"You weren't being awful to me."
"Yeah I was," she insisted, rolling her eyes a little. "So..." She set the bulky shopping bag on the floor and reached inside, sliding from it a plastic-wrapped bedding set. It was the bright one Brittany had picked out on Sunday.
"Santana," she said as if she felt guilty, smiling a little. "You don't like that one."
"No, I really think I'll learn to," she insisted. "I just have to force myself to get over the fact that butterflies are basically flying insects, and that they start off as worms..."
"Caterpillars."
"Whatever. It'll grow on me." She smiled at her. "And wait, that's not all." From the very bottom of the bag she pulled out the powder-blue camisole, holding it up proudly like a game show model. "Okay, I admit, this one's really more of a gift for me. But it was on sale."
Brittany took it from her, laughing a little. She held it and stroked the fabric, musing. "This is so sweet."
"And last but not least, I... have something I need to say," Santana went on, nervous now. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. "The other day, when that little girl was looking for her mom... I shouldn't have said all that stuff. I just haven't been around that many kids before, other than your sister. And she's like a miniature version of you."
Curious, Brittany waited.
She continued, sitting down on the bed next to her. "Anyway, I just wanted to say... the fact that I don't like other people's kids, it doesn't mean that I wouldn't want to..." She stopped, uncomfortable. "I mean, it doesn't mean that we could never..." She stopped again, wondering why this was so difficult. Desperate for a reprieve, she looked up at Brittany. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
She seemed to consider playing dumb, forcing her to be more specific, but she couldn't do it. She smiled understandingly. "Yeah. I think so."
"Okay. Good." She let her breath out in relief. "I just wanted to be clear about that."
Brittany continued to look at her for a second, proud and grateful. Then she leaned toward her and cupped her face, giving her a kiss that surprised Santana in its intensity. She closed her eyes and gave into it, riding the crest as it gradually increased in force, the pressure of Brittany's mouth and the insistent probing of her tongue making her forget to breathe. Air was overrated, anyway.
But then Brittany seemed to force herself to pull away, gasping a little. She leaned back, staring down at her lap, as if suddenly remembering something unpleasant. "Damn it," she muttered to herself. "I feel really, really bad now."
"Why?" Santana asked, puzzled. She glanced around, looking for the answer. "This stuff was a surprise, you didn't have to get me anything."
"No, it's not that." She stood up and went to the window, looking at the pizza place behind their building. Reluctantly, she said. "It's just, I was at Eric and Bonnie's this morning." She turned back to face her, regretful. "Santana... we didn't get the apartment."
"What?" She was nearly as shocked as when she'd first been asked to move into it. "But I thought they weren't showing it to anyone else."
"They didn't." Brittany crossed her arms and leaned back against the windowsill. "But it turns out they're not moving after all. Bonnie just found out she's pregnant, and they're not really sure who the father is. Apparently there are about four different candidates." As if the idea had just occurred to her, she added, "I get the feeling they might be just a little flakey?"
Santana bit her lip, nodding at this understatement of the century. "Maybe a little."
"So, that's that, I guess," Brittany sighed, as if relinquishing the entire thing.
Santana stared down at the camisole on the bed, wondering exactly how to respond, not wanting to say the wrong thing. She was disappointed, and yet, at the same time...
Almost as if reading her mind, Brittany told her, "It's okay, you don't have to pretend to be too upset. I know you weren't that crazy about the idea."
"Britt, it's not that," she assured her. "I wanted this for us. But you can't blame me for being a little sad about leaving everything. This place has been my home for half a year. I love this broke-ass neighborhood... I can't help it. And I love this building... and all the eccentric whackjobs in it. It's like free entertainment."
"Including the two who live in this apartment," Brittany couldn't help throwing in.
She gave a tiny shrug, embarrassed to admit it. "Yeah, sometimes. I know we fight a lot, but it's kind of like a sport for us. We enjoy it. Or at least I do, and that's all that really matters."
"I get it," Brittany said softly. And to her credit, it looked like she really did. "I think I was probably jumping the gun a little bit, anyway. Though I've never understood that phrase. Why are people jumping? Is there, like, a trampoline? Because you shouldn't mix guns and trampolines, even I know that." Losing the track of her meaning, she struggled to remember what she'd been saying. "Anyway. I'm sorry about all this."
"Don't be," Santana said in a firm tone. She got up and went to stand by the window with her, wanting to make sure her meaning sunk in. "The fact that you were willing to sign that lease... you have no idea how much that means to me, Brittany. It means everything." She brushed away a tear, not intending to get that emotional. But she couldn't help it. The fact that they weren't actually going anywhere seemed almost beside the point. All that mattered was that they'd been ready to.
She leaned up against her, loving the way she could so easily, by bending just a little, tuck her head under Brittany's chin. She let herself be held for a moment. Then, when she was confident that she could speak without her voice breaking, she stepped back, taking a deep breath. "But... I guess we did all this packing for nothing."
Brittany was polite enough not to remind her that she'd actually done most of the packing herself while Santana had lounged around in sweats with a hot water bottle, being useless. As if she'd just remembered it, she said, "Actually... we are still moving. But just across the hall. We're trading rooms with Rachel."
"You're kidding me." She stared at her in surprise. "How the hell did you manage that heroic feat?"
"We worked out an arrangement." Then, when Santana still waited for details, she added with irony, "You are looking at the official director-slash-producer of the upcoming short film Metaphors are Important: The Rachel Berry Story. Starring Rachel Berry."
"Oh my God," Santana laughed in pity, bringing her hand up to her mouth. "Are you sure that it's worth it? Just for a bigger room?"
"A bigger bed, too," Brittany said, smiling coyly. "Don't forget about that part."
And, since the larger bed was now technically theirs, they decided, by mutual consent, that there was no time like the present to try it out for the first time.
Later that night, Santana sat in the middle of the couch, Kurt and Rachel on either side of her. Stupid as she knew it was, she couldn't help feeling a sense of victory. The enemy had been vanquished. The Salamander had flown the coop. Or something like that. The point was, this was her spot. Not Jesse's. And now that she'd reclaimed it, all was right with the world.
With her realization earlier today that their not getting the apartment in Hell's Kitchen necessarily meant that he wouldn't be getting this one, Santana had begged to be allowed to break the news to him. Alas, it wasn't to be... Rachel had insisted on doing it herself, in private. By her account, he had taken the news like a complete gentleman, and even offered to leave his box of carpet samples in their possession, should they choose to make use of his decorating advice. Santana rolled her eyes at that. It didn't matter, though. At least he wouldn't be living here. He was still obnoxious as hell, and she suspected she hadn't seen or heard the last of him, but with the sense of threat gone, she thought she could handle being in his presence without behaving like a six-year-old. Time would tell.
"Oh, look!" Rachel said, pointing at the screen. "The man on the right. You can tell he's never held a baseball bat before, he doesn't know what to do with it. Gay. So gay."
"Good eye," Santana told her approvingly.
"That doesn't count," Kurt said, sounding bored.
They looked at him. "Why not?"
"Because that's Sal Mineo. Everyone knows he was gay."
Rachel glanced at Santana. "We didn't."
"Yeah, it counts if we didn't know."
He seemed to consider arguing the point, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Fine," he told them, but still sounding superior about it.
Brittany appeared in the room, wearing her pajamas, but also with shoes and a jacket on.
"Hey," Santana looked up. "You want to play How Many Gays? with us? I think we might break a record tonight. These Cold War movies are golden... everyone was hiding something."
"Um, I might catch the end of it, but.. right now I sort of have a date, with Pete."
Santana raised her eyebrows. "Should I be worried?"
She smiled, zipping her jacket. "He likes to hear stories about Herman." Off of their puzzled looks, she reminded them, "His son."
"Ah, right. The kitty-litter tester," Kurt said.
She went on. "And I know it sounds weird, but I'm really starting to like Ruby. In some ways I think she's more interesting than Brittany."
"Well, I highly doubt that," Santana told her with affection. "But have fun."
When she was gone, they continued to watch the movie companionably for a few minutes. Unable to help herself, Santana suggested, "I bet Jesse would really suck at this game."
Rachel gave her a reassuring pat on the knee. "No doubt about it."
She waited, then asked, "Do you guys think I'm a brat?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely," Kurt added.
"But you know that, like, even when I say shitty things..." She stopped, then tried again. "I mean, it's not like I don't still..." Mortified and wishing she hadn't begun this impossible speech, she gave up, somehow managing to sound insulted. "Forget it."
Kurt let the silence stretch out a bit longer, relishing her awkwardness. Without looking away from the TV, he tossed off in a casual way, "We love you too, Santana."
She settled back into the cushions, the faintest ghost of a triumphant smile playing about her lips.
On the screen there now appeared a voluptuous, brassy woman who was ostensibly there to charm the pants off the leading man, but who kept throwing appraising glances at the young ingénue. She even seemed to be directing her lines toward her, in a subtle, roundabout way. The leading man struggled to engage her focus, his ego noticeably stung.
The three of them watched the scene for a few seconds, attentive to detail. Then at the same time, with confidence, they all said, "Lesbian."
