Mi Vida...Not So Loca
Chapter Six
Getting Harder
Santana Lopez:
Throughout history, there have been days that have been particularly horrible; the day that Pearl Harbour got completely pummelled by the Japanese, the day that Chernobyl blew up and when Hiroshima got burned to the ground, the day the tsunami in South Asia hit and the day where a mad man decided to go into a school and start shooting everyone. For me, the weekend where I was supposed to make amends with my wife was worse than all those dreadful, dark days in history put together and times by a billion. For that whole two day weekend, I wasn't so much walking on eggshells, more like walking on minefields.
Awaking that Saturday morning was horrible. I felt sick as soon as I was pulled from my hazy dream and groaned once I felt the different sheets I had tangled myself up in and the cool air that surrounded me. Normally Saturdays are our favourite days. We stretch and groan but then tangle our limbs together with lazy, Saturday induced grins because we realise we don't have to get up so early and we can have a little longer snuggle time. We don't care about morning breath or bed head. All we care about is seeing each other from being 'apart' for so long during the night. Usually we wake up in each other's arms (or at least Brittany manoeuvres herself into my arms and rests her head on my chest so it appears that we had been connected all that time) and whisper "Good morning sweetheart" to each other and further whisper our dreams to each other, pressing chaste kisses to our lips and then holding ourselves pressed close together; our fingers running along our arms and sending relaxing shivers through our bodies. My favourite thing about Saturday morning waking up is that I can run my fingers through Brittany's mermaid golden hair and I can make her purr softly in comfort and delight as she holds herself to me like a koala to a tree as she listens to my heartbeat. I think that is the most intimate one can be: listening to someone's heartbeat. She tells me often how my heartbeat is one of her most favourite sounds. In fact she told me one Saturday morning her top five favourite sounds: my bunged up voice when I have a cold, my singing voice, my happy laugh, the sigh I make when I come down from my orgasm induced high and my heartbeat. When she told me her list, I couldn't do anything but stop running my fingers through her hair and smother her lips in kisses.
Saturday morning without Brittany next to me was the worst thing in the world. I didn't even bother stretching on the mattress. I sat up and kicked the sheets off me, pressed my hands to my face and yelled. It was deep man-ish bellow and afterwards my throat hurt, but I didn't care. I needed to release the tension built up inside my chest. I had to do something before I made things worse. And yet, screaming into my hands didn't help as much as I thought it would. Screaming into a pillow helps but my hands actually gripped my cheeks, my nails scratched my face and my fingertips pressed down hard onto my cheekbones. The tension in my chest was still there but at least some of my rage had gone. I still felt angry with myself but at least I wasn't likely to yell at Brittany now. Not that I would on purpose. The only time I've ever yelled at her was when we were in high school. She cried so hard. Her face was red and her eyes were blotchy, the tears streamed so quickly I couldn't help but want to cry myself. I never wanted to make her cry again. She told me during her fit of tears that she couldn't handle it when people yelled at her; it only made things worse. Now I knew what she meant. With her yelling at me the previous night, I felt like the world's worst human being. Before I thought that the calmer and more composed you were when you yelled it would be scarier, but now being on the receiving end of such rage, I knew that it really wasn't always the case.
Trudging across the landing to our bedroom, I tried to think of what to do. I couldn't stand being by myself anymore and it had only been a few hours. One sleeping night and I missed her terribly. I knew that Brittany was mad – more than mad – at me, but I had to know if she missed me too. What was there I could do to make her happy? A part of me knew I should have just left her a little longer, but I longed for her. I needed to know if she was okay. Of course emotionally I knew she wasn't okay, but physically I had to know. Did she have a headache, like I did, because she had been crying so much? Did she have a stomach ache from all the emotions swirling inside of her? Had she – God forbid - hurt herself because she was upset? Brittany wasn't the type to hurt herself when she's sad, but was an emotional girl. Woman. Unlike me who spent her whole life showing no emotions at all and only now that I'm married to my soul mate do I let down the screens more, Brittany has always showed the world how she was feeling and what she was thinking. Growing up she was such a bubbly, happy, carefree girl she would usually just be smiling. Most people would say they never saw her without a smile or wearing brightly coloured (and sometimes weird) clothes. Of course I knew Brittany did have more than one emotion (extreme happiness) just like she was the only one who saw my true emotions. When Brittany was sad, it felt like the whole world was grey and empty. Walking across that landing from one room to the other, I knew the snow was melting in the world, the animals were fighting, the flowers stopped blooming and the wind stopped blowing. I didn't need to go inside to know that the air behind the door was thick and heavy with sadness; I could feel it.
Twisting the knob anyway I let myself in and peeked at the woman I loved so much. Sat legs crossed on top of our bed, scowling at the door. Growling silently at me. True to what I thought, her eyes were puffy and red. Her cheeks had the clearest, thickest tear track marks I had ever seen and the room felt like a different planet. Gulping I tried to step into the room but as soon as I moved, like a deer in the wild, Brittany sprung off the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with such a forceful flick I was sure it had fallen off. For the rest of the day we went our separate ways; I saw Quinn and she taught her dance classes. It was nice seeing Quinn. She gave me a break from the tension in the house. I had tried to do grading but couldn't concentrate. The house was way too quiet. Brittany had been occupying herself in our room whilst I stayed in the living room, trying to still my anxious beating heart: this was one rhythm I knew Brittany would not want to listen to. That evening was just as torturous as the day. Brittany didn't come home from the studio until late and I slept in the spare room once again. As I did Sunday evening and probably would for the next few days.
Quinn Fabray:
Lying in my bed, I hear the clock ticking. I may have referenced that from a song, but it was exactly what I did Friday night once I got home from Sam's. In fact, for the whole weekend I just lay in my bed and listened to my clock ticking away, letting me know that the world was still out there and that I wasn't stuck in my own confused misery. Each tick told me that the world was spinning and that the day was passing and it wouldn't be long until I felt better. Actually, I wasn't sure about the last one. All I could think about was how confused my mind was. It was like taking a month out of school and then trying to do all of your classes all at once. My head felt heavy and fuzzy and every time I closed my eyes to try and rid myself of the clouded confusion, more would pour in. With my open or closed my brain was just haunted by visions and plagued by words and voices. Two things were playing round and round like a spinning top. The same two things that had caused me to run home crying from Sam's in the first place: why did I not like being kissed and touched by Sam and why did I wish it was someone else? Actually, why did I wish it was Rachel?
For the rest of Friday night, I just cried. I locked myself in my room and cried. Flung myself onto my bed and cried. Crying seemed to be the best thing to do. I didn't care if my mom was stood outside my door, banging and rattling the door handle to get inside, tapping softly and cooing at me to either come out or let her in so we could talk. Talk. How could I talk to my mom about this? How could I talk to her about me not enjoying kissing Sam, because I'm thinking about kissing someone else? She'd probably smile softly (but still slightly disappointedly) at that and put her hand on my shoulder to tell me it was okay if I didn't like Sam 'that way'. But what she wouldn't understand or even bother to listen to would be the reason why I didn't like Sam 'that way'. There was absolutely no way I could tell her the truth. If she pressed me on whom it was I was really thinking of kissing, she would be disgusted. I know she would. Her back was straighten and her face would freeze. She'd either pretend that I hadn't said anything or she would brush it off as something silly or even try to blame it on my period or something! As much as I would love to agree with her by saying, "Yes, it is just my hormones" or "Yes, it is silly" but deep down, I know that it isn't hormones messing with my mind or something silly. And to even think about it terrifies me.
Friday night I had fallen asleep with damp eyes and noisy ears. Saturday morning I woke with a sore head and an aching heart. Taking a shower was the best thing I could have done. I chucked the duvet off my bed (along with a pillow and my stuffed lamb, Lila) and went to the bathroom. Turning the handle I grunted as it – and everything else – felt so laboured and hard to do. Then I stripped and got in the shower. I didn't even care if it burned my skin at first. Sure I jumped back and hissed at the scolding heat but really, I didn't care. All I cared about was a moments rest from these racing, screaming, conflicting thoughts. Of course I closed my eyes as I washed my hair and saw one face. One beautiful face. Two sensational eyes staring at me through my own darkness. I gasped but couldn't open my eyes. Instead my fingers stilled in my hair as I watched the eyes stare back at me. My shoulders shuddered and then I began to cry once again. This time, however, the tears were different. They were tears of defeat. I couldn't hide it or deny it any longer. No matter how hard or for how long I tried there was no point in trying to lie. These eyes and thoughts would not let me go until I said it out loud. But I couldn't. There was no way I could say it out loud. Not yet. So, I shook my head (failing to clear the image out of my mind) and continued my shower with my crying eyes open.
Now that I had silently admitted it to myself, I felt different. Stepping out of the shower, I felt the cold air was sharper and for the first time in my life I actually felt my nipples harden against the cold. Wrapping a towel around my body felt strange; I didn't dare look at myself in the mirror. Lucky for me, the bathroom mirror was cloudy with steam from my shower. My bedroom was a little steamy too, but that only made the mirror more inviting. Why was I reluctant to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, and yet intrigued by my bedroom mirror? A part of me thought it must have been down to hormones, but I didn't care. Even after my shower I felt funny. My head was still heavy and my skin was tingling. Usually I hate how I look once getting out of a shower. I hate how red my skin it and how green my eyes stand out. I hate how deeply I have to breathe because the air is so stuffy with steam I'm afraid I'll pass out otherwise. Yet I walked over to the full length mirror and stared at myself. My blonde hair, now a dark wet colour, dripped in two strands over my shoulders and again down my back. Because of the heat my skin was blotchy and my eyes were straining at me, but I didn't care. The towel was wrapped loosely around my chest and I could just about see it moving from where my heart was beating so much. Feeling intoxicated by the heat, steam and pure emotional turmoil, my fingers dug into the white towel knot and pulled it apart, exposing my body to me.
"So this is what the body of a confused girl looks like," Bitterly and yet ghostly I said to myself. To anyone else (who had actually seen my body of course) my body didn't look that different. I was still slim, tall, had a good figure but not overly spectacular. I still had two arms and two legs. My breasts were still round, the nipples still looking pointed and ahead, and my belly button still annoyingly poked out. My shoulders were still pulled back in the debutant way and my collar bone still stuck out slightly. Basically everything was the same, and yet I felt differently. Who knew just by saying something – or thinking of saying something – even in your head could make you feel so different. There was a stereotype of what girls who could possibly think the way I do look like and as I looked at myself, I knew there was no way I would follow the derogatory look. In fact I shuddered as I thought about it. Of course there was nothing wrong with looking like that. There were girls at school who looked like that and I bet they weren't even…confused.
The longer I stared at myself, the more I started to feel conflicted again. But not because of my thoughts on Sam and 'the other one', but on my own prejudices. I am not a prejudice person. At least I'd like to think I'm not. Even living with my parents, I know I'm not prejudice. Even though I don't want to make friends, I would make friends with a black girl or an Asian girl…heck, Rachel was Jewish! Rachel. As soon as I had thought of her name, I flared up again and turned away from the mirror. Flinging the towel away I went to grab a fresh pair of pyjamas and crawled straight back into bed; refusing to do anything but try and get rid of the thoughts once again. They screamed at me to go back to how I was before I moved here, but then they would scream again and say I've always been like this…why was everything so hard?
Santana Lopez:
In all my life I had never been so tired. I think it was fair to say I had truly never been so exhausted. Trying to walk into work on Monday morning pretending that I hadn't spent my weekend at home with my wife being almost completely silent and crying myself to sleep was really hard. What made it worse was I was sure everyone could tell that something had happened. I had put on a tonne of make-up to cover up the bags under my eyes and sprayed my eyes with water to try and get rid of the blood shot and cooling gel-pads to try and get rid of the puffiness that were now my eyelids. Heaving myself out of the car I sighed heavily and put myself into Senorita Lopez mode. The walk from the car to the teachers' lounge was the easy part of the day: my shoulders were back and my head was up, the clack of my heels and the swish of my hair made me feel important and carefree, but as soon as I saw all of my colleagues sat together drinking coffee and talking about their weekends, I suddenly wished I had gone to Brittany's studio and begged her to forgive me.
Even though it had only been a weekend, I missed her. I missed her kisses on my cheek or my head for when we saw each other in passing, I missed her bringing me coffee when I was working and the light shoulder squeeze. I missed her humming and wiggling around the house. Most of all, I missed her. Not just the physical contact of being wives but just her sparkle. I really missed having the eye contact, the cheeky smirks and winks, the smiles we shared throughout the day and the conversations. I missed talking to her and it had only been two days! A lot of couples don't talk. They just coarse through life with minimal conversation. Not Brittany and I. We actually talked to each other about everything; politics, celebrities, work, the world, books but my favourite thing was talking about the most random things in the world. No matter how tired either of us were we always talked to each other and I never got ratty with her by her random and totally bizarre comments. Sometimes we would be talking about something so trivial and boring – like the weather – and then all of a sudden she would jump in and tell me some random fact about some random topic. For a second I'd look at her and think "What planet are you on?" but then just one millisecond of looking into her sparkling blue eyes, I would break out into one of the world's biggest smiles and laugh. We'd then laugh and try to keep it going for as long as possible; she would always win with making me laugh the most, and I was determined to win at least one round of Laughter Game. Of course, with how badly I had hurt her, I wasn't sure if I would win it anytime soon. Or if we would even play it.
Sat with my mug cupped in my lap at the table where I usually checked my timetable and lesson plans, listening to the dull buzz of the lounge, I felt my eyes prickle thinking about how much I missed her. A part of me couldn't believe it had only been a weekend and I was feeling so bad. All couples fight, but not us. This fight felt like 'War of the Worlds', 'Taken' and 'Gladiator' all in one. We never fight and this is the worst thing that has ever happened to us. I felt like crying at how awful this whole thing is. Yet, another part of me was being so clam and assuring. It was telling me that this wasn't a big fight and things would blow over. But this was such a huge issue I knew that it would make or break us and dear God did I want it to make us stronger. I wanted her so badly to forgive me and I knew that spending the day with these teachers was not going to make me not miss her. Sure it wasn't like they had the world's happiest marriages. One grumpy math teacher was complaining yet again about how his wife was nagging him to help with the garden and take her to see her mother in Denver. Scowling at him I felt like blowing up in his face: at least his wife was interacting with him. Brittany and I had barely seen each other and the house felt cold and empty. As cliché as it sounds, Brittany is the light of the house and this World War Three argument had not only turned the light off but smashed it completely and I was fearful that this was going to be the end of us if I didn't sort it out. It was up to me to fix us.
Thank goodness for my classes. I wasn't sure what type of class I wanted the most. Both versions were great because they distracted me from my problems at home, but they distracted me in different ways. Some of the classes were just plain old mischievous. They didn't want to learn anything and were only focused on wasting the thirty minutes or hour we had together. These classes were good, because it meant I could release all the anger and tension I had built up inside of me. Sure, screaming into the palms of my hands on Saturday morning helped, but with how guilty I was feeling and how angry I was about our situation, it felt really good to be able to yell at people who didn't mean a lot (or anything) to me. As soon as they left it felt good to sit down at my desk and sigh, rolling my neck and closing my eyes as I could imagine myself yelling at Brittany to forgive me. Even though I wouldn't, a part of me felt like yelling at Brittany but I didn't deserve the right to yell. I was in the wrong and she was completely in the right. But it was still nice to just imagine it for once. The calm, hard working classes were great as well. Whilst they worked well and we peaceful, it gave me a chance to relax myself. I could imagine myself going home and trying again like I did on Friday to make things up to her. In this quiet setting of listening to the kids work through their assignments, I imagined conversations and speeches I would recite to her to make her not only forgive me but move us forward. Of course, as soon as the class would end, unlike the naughty classes, the tension would return I would still be back to how things were at the weekend: stressed and confused of how things got so out of hand – all because of me.
Quinn Fabray:
Just when I thought my torturous weekend of being flooded by Rachel and guilt of Sam, I had to have my heart shatter and be rebuilt in a totally different way. Lunchtime on Wednesday I was making my way to the library to read for my next class, when I stupidly made my way pas the choir room. Rachel had told me that she practices in there most days at lunch and I was welcome to join her whenever I wanted. Me not being a singer and not wanting to intrude on her precious practicing time, I always declined. This time however, I couldn't help but watch her from the window and be astounded. She was practicing a really old song that I had never heard before and even though it was only a practice, she was spellbinding. She would look and sound even better on the stage in the auditorium – or actually up on a Broadway stage where she ought to and destined to be – but the choir room would do. She was facing the empty chairs and had her CD player hooked up to the speakers on a low volume so she could hear herself. I had never heard someone belt out a ballad like that before and needless to say, my reading for the next class would not be done.
Watching her facial expressions, see her gestures as she moved her arm up to hold the note with her hand in front of her face, to hear the emotion in her voice…I couldn't move. Literally (and typically cliché) I was stuck, rooted to the spot and I wanted nothing more but to just listen and watch her perform. Her last long note had my eyes widening, my jaw dropping and my skin crawling with bumps, my limbs and back shaking with awe and as she quietened her voice for the last few lines, I couldn't breathe for fear I wouldn't hear her beautiful voice. She didn't break out of character at all. Even as the music slowed down and eventually came to a stop, she didn't break. Her gaze was fixed on her audience and I knew that she was waiting patiently – like any good diva – for their obvious, adoring applause. Instead of her just listening to it in her head (or springing back to life and practicing once more) I began to start a slow clap outside.
The sudden noise brought me her attention. Her head snapped round to the door and a huge grin broke free on her face. Because she grinned, I beamed and together we both shared and basked a private happiness. Like a child or a puppy, she bounded over to the door, grabbed my hand and squealed for me to come inside. We weren't even sat down on the chairs before she started babbling away at how long she wished I had come and watched her sing, albeit actually inside the classroom, and how she wasn't sure if her tone was quite right or pitch was up to scratch or her facial expressions were a bit odd and weren't quite conveying the emotions and the power of the song. As much as I loved listening to her – even when she was criticising herself – and watching just how passionate and enthusiastic she got when she was talking, I had to stop her and tell her just how brilliant she was.
"Rachel!" I barked with a slightly giggle. She stopped and looked at me, giving me all of her attention. Her eyes were wide and waiting for me to tell her what I thought or her practice. Her leg crossed over the other and her hands stilled themselves her lap. Her bubbly, enthusiastic face was gone and was now replaced by a waiting, patient look; waiting for the verdict. I tried to look as serious as possible. It felt a bit like we were on some talent competition show: Rachel the hopeful contestant and me the bullying judge. Although why I would be the judge is a puzzle; who am I to judge on someone's singing ability? Although it is pretty obvious Rachel is a star. She's not just a star in the making or a future star, she is a star and she doesn't know it yet. So I told her. Breaking my façade I took hold of her shoulders and beamed at her once more. "Rachel, you were, as always, insatiably perfect!" She squealed and clapped her hands and was about to speak again, but I wasn't finished. Instead of keeping her still via holding onto her shoulder, I took hold of her hands – the urge to plant a sweet kiss on those dainty hands not going unnoticed by me – and gave her a softer smile. Looking her straight in the eye, I spoke softly and told her from my heart; "Rachel, you are a star. You are a star and now you just need to let everyone know."
Instead of squealing in supersonic delight, Rachel turned her hands over, palm to palm, and linked our fingers together. She did what I wasn't brave enough to do: she picked up our entwined hands and pressed her sweeter than strawberries lips against the back of my vanilla hand and looked at me through her thick, fluttering, beautiful eyelashes. "That is the kindest, most inspirational thing anyone has ever said to me," she whispered slightly bashfully and all I could say in return in an even quieter whisper; "I mean every word." Even though I didn't want to, I knew I had to just to show how much I truly meant it, I broke free one of my hands and cupped her cheek. They were hot and I realised she must have been blushing but that just made me stroke my thumb softly at the pink skin I found there. Then, as quickly as I could, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to her forehead. After I broke away from her head, my lips still tingled and I longed to lick them. I didn't, but knew I would only be thinking about how right it felt having my lips against her skin and how right it felt for hers to be on mine.
Then, not only a few seconds of us just smiling at each other, our spell was broken, our bubble was burst, our dream was shatter. Our perfect universe came crashing down and we were brought back to reality and the voices were screaming at me once again. This time, it wasn't just my own voice, but that of my father's. And suddenly I was frightened. Since these thoughts had been yelling at me when I came home on Friday from Sam's, I had only heard my own voice. Now that my father was bellowing at me, I knew that I couldn't do this again. No matter how right or good it felt, I had to never do that again: I could never think Rachel and I could be something beautiful.
Santana Lopez:
Every time I came home the house was silent and almost haunting. Some days Brittany would be home before me, but sometimes she wouldn't as the weeks varied with classes. For the first two days after our horrible weekend, I barely saw Brittany. We lived separate lives for four days. Wednesday was the day where it all changed. Where I had been working in my office on some assignments I wanted to give to some of the rather lingual-gifted students in my freshman class, I heard the front door open. It was weird because I hadn't heard her come in the house at all and this therefore made me stop my fingers typing and my head turn sharply to the open door of my office. Something in me suddenly struck and I felt like someone was telling me tonight would be different; for better or worse I didn't know, but I had to. Pushing my chair back I knew I had to get down the stairs before she came up and locked herself away for the evening or stayed down there and ignore me. Rushing down the stairs I knew tonight would be different. I could feel it. Maybe this was the night where the air would be cleared and we could go back to showing how much we loved each other. I knew she loved me, she just wasn't showing it. She had every right not to obviously, but maybe tonight I would be able to break the spell that was looming over us and we could actually talk about everything that's happened.
Once down the stairs I saw that she had hung up her coat and had taken off her shoes. Her bag wasn't by the door so that must mean she was in the laundry room or in the kitchen. Like a detective or a cop in a horror movie, I wasted no time in rushing into the kitchen and there she was, my amazing wife stood basically inside the refrigerator as she looked for something to drink or eat. The nerves came back as soon as I stepped inside the room, but I didn't care. It was a now or never moment and there was no way I was passing up the opportunity to apologise and beg for forgiveness. Yes I may have been planning for days on how I could make it up to her, what I could say and do to make her look at me and talk to me and just be my wife again. But of course, like a football game or a war, one could plan and plan as much as possible but things don't necessarily go to plan. We weren't in a movie or a play and things weren't scripted and easy to follow. As soon as I saw Brittany turn around I froze and as soon as her eyes met mine I felt like running away. But I wasn't going to be a coward.
"Hi," I said, trying to be as strong as possible. There was a strange sense of déjà vu as her eyes stared into mine for a moment. But then the moment was gone. She slammed the door shut and tried to get out of the kitchen. As she passed however, I knew I had to stop her. That feeling in my stomach was growing. Tonight was the night where something was going to change; I could feel it and I had to make it true. As she passed I called her name. She ignored me and walked out of the room. She was heading for our bedroom and I couldn't let her go: if she went into our room then I wouldn't see her for the rest of the night and probably not until tomorrow either. I caught up to her just as she was about to climb the stairs. I was desperate. Where only minutes before, I was calm and ready to pour my heart out in a structured way to the love of my life I was now grasping at nothing. Grasping at hope as it slipped through my fingers like sand. My heart was beating quickly and I could hear the blood swishing in my brain and my ears and I just had to say something. She couldn't go upstairs. If she went upstairs then that would be it and who knew when I was going to get another gut feeling. Tonight was the night where something would change and we could hopefully get things back to how they were before. "Brittany please talk to me!" Her feet paused on the step and I saw her sigh. That meant something good right?
On the stairs, only three steps away, I could see her stiffen. Her whole body just went rigid and I could tell by the way her shoulders were still hunched and yet rising and falling, she was mad. Still mad. But the air felt so different. My gut feeling was telling me things would be different tonight. A small fragment of hope spoke up in the back of my mind; maybe she wasn't tense, maybe she was crying. Really, I'm not sure how her crying would be any better, but I guess that would give me the chance to comfort her. Maybe it would mean she was sorry for reacting the way she did on Friday. Maybe it would mean I could hold her; she could flop down onto me and I could hold her as she cried and told me how sorry she was for being dramatic and that, sure, we could talk more. But I knew that slither of hope wasn't worth paying even the slightest amount of interest to because as soon as I released a breath, she spun round and was giving me a terrifying look.
Her eyes were wide and frightening. Her nostrils were flaring and her fists were balled at her side. This wasn't mad Brittany, this was ferocious Brittany and I now wished, for a fleeting moment, that I had just stayed away and waited for her to come to me. "Talk?" She growled in that sarcastic way that the evil, psychotic guys in movies use. Of course Brittany wasn't evil or psychotic, she was just hurting and I had a feeling I was going to be hit harder than last time she used this kind of tone. I only hoped it would be metaphorical because my Brittany, my dazzling light, had never laid a hand on anyone before in her life and I was sure as anything she wouldn't start with me. Even though I deserved it wholeheartedly.
Like a lioness with her eyes on a kill, she stalked towards me as she came down the stairs. "You want to talk?" She asked again, slower and more deadly than before. She didn't give me a chance to reply before she started talking again. This time as she talked she began to slowly back me up against the wall. We had fantasised and role played before with us taking these kinds of steps before; like the hostage spy or the innocent girl against the vampire. But this was real and instead of being sexy, Brittany was scary. "Alright, we'll talk. We'll talk about why you've lied to me for all these years. Why you've lied to me for the last year and why you've made me think that you actually care about me." Frowning up against the wall, I didn't know what she was talking about. I had never lied to her. The only lie I had ever told, was telling her that I didn't have a crush on her when she asked me years ago back when we were kids. The heating in her house wasn't working because one of the neighbours had disconnected something that made the whole street have no power, so we were snuggled together in her bed. We must have been about eleven years old and were just starting to find out about crushes and relationships. She was holding my hand and our faces were so close together. I had wrapped my legs around her and was holding her back and pressing her up against me. "Santana," she whispered, her huge blue eyes sparkling at me in the dim moonlight, "I want to tell you a secret." She giggled and I could tell she blushed because she dipped her head. Giggling too, I scratched her back lightly with my nails. "I already know all of your secrets Brittany!" Giggling slightly louder she shook her head and beamed at me; I beamed back and waited for her. "No silly, it's a new secret," who was I to argue with that? Somehow she wriggled impossibly closer to me and whispered; "I have a crush on you!" Even at eleven years old, I knew that it wasn't right for us to be having those feelings for one another. I knew that we couldn't announce to our classmates that we were dating because I knew even then of the prejudices we would face. So when she asked, snuggling into me more, if I had a crush on her too, I shook my head. Ashamed I looked into her eyes and lied: "No Brittany, I'm sorry I don't." I don't think I had ever heard my voice so sad before and I hadn't heard hers so sad before either when she said in a deflated way; "Oh." When then broke apart and slept facing away from each other.
Needless to say, we both woke up cold and sad.
Seeing my face, Brittany huffed and pushed herself away from me. "You don't know what I'm talking about, right?" She asked, turned her head back to look at me as she walked away. Trying not to bite down on my trembling lip to show her how much I wished the last week had never happened, I shrugged my shoulder at. Again she scoffed and lifted her hand. Her ring was so beautiful and perfect, just like her. "We had always made plans to be together, Santana," she began and I knew that by the end of her talking I would have tears streaming down my face and she would have to be the one to hold me. "You had always told me that you would give me whatever I wanted. When we were twelve and at that fair our parents took us to and I wanted a candy apple and my parents said I couldn't have one, you took money out of your dad's pocket when you were giving him a hug and you bought me one. When we were seventeen and I wanted to go out on a date with you in public, you took me to that concert where our entire school would be and you made it damn clear it was a date when you kissed me when you saw the camera for the big screen was on us. When I wanted to get married near that orchard because it reminded me of a movie we once saw together, you went down there three weekends in a row and demanded they clear a spot for us." Her voice had cracked at some point during her last memory recall and I knew my tears had started way before that. She still looked so beautiful even when she cried.
Stepping forward she looked down at the carpet and sniffled; "If I could, then I would take away all of those pointless things I thought I wanted. I would have gone without that candy apple, gone without that date to the concert, gone without that kiss on the big screen, even gone without the perfect wedding." She looked up and I could see how red her eyes were getting from all the tears and once again I wanted to crumble to the floor on my knees and beg for forgiveness. But begging for forgiveness wasn't what I needed. What I needed was to let go of my fears and start being a wife. "None of that matters," she continued, solemnly, "Our wedding was perfect and our lives are perfect because we have each other and because we know what the wants in life. You knew, you always knew, that I wanted to have a baby, to have a family. I was so sure that you wanted that too." Her voice had broken into a whisper once again and this time I stood straight and took a deep breath. "I do want that Brittany," I admitted breathlessly, as even the thought of admitting just how much I wanted a family with her was causing me pain. But what was hurting me more was once again admitting once again that there was no way I could have a baby with her in this town. She was right the last time: I'm selfish and mean, but that's just the way it is.
I have to protect her first and if us waiting a few more years before we had a family was what protected her, then so be it.
For a moment she looked hopeful. I saw it in her eyes just for that fleeting moment. Her eyes flickered and a light passed through them. The hope that I had changed my mind was there in her eyes and I could see how she was picturing the next few moments if everything played out the way she wanted it. But I couldn't lie to her. I couldn't add to the lies she thought I had already told. Taking one last shuddering breath I stepped forward and put my hands in my pockets: I pure sign of defeat, reluctant giving up and ending the discussion. "Brittany I can't have a baby with you here. Maybe in a few years' time once we've made more of ourselves, like your studios have lifted off and I can go back to being a top psychiatrist or something…but not here. Not where I don't feel safe." I'm sure if I had mentioned this in the first place instead of bottling it all up, we could have talked more openly about my fears. I may be a psychiatrist and once working with a top firm dealing with all kinds of patients, but that doesn't mean I know all the answers. Sometimes you don't need a 'shrink'; you just need someone who loves you and you love back, to talk to you.
Hearing once again I wasn't going to consider having a baby with her yet – and her making the calculations that if we had it my way we wouldn't be having a baby until well into our late thirties – she deflated, sighing and muttering her new favourite phrase; "I need space." And she walked past me, up the stairs and into our bedroom to think and to cry herself to sleep yet again. I deflated too. I went to my office again and worked well into the night. I needed something to do that would stop me from crying into the spare bedroom's pillow yet again as well. I only stopped working when I remembered I was meeting with the school board the next day with a bunch of other teachers to discuss possible field trips and to see if we had any money for it. To be honest, I didn't need to go. The only place these kids could go to get some kind of Spanish practise was the bad areas of town where I knew other Latinos lived, or the actual Latino countries. Or California. But I couldn't see the school board agreeing to that. Still I went to bed empty and cold and for the first time in a long time, I remembered how I felt as an eleven year old girl; my best friend sleeping nearby with tears in her eyes to match mine and yet being too proud and too stupid to do anything about it.
Quinn Fabray:
Since Wednesday things hadn't been right. Within me, things just didn't feel right. Like a gut instinct or something. It was a climate shift. It's a weird analogy, but I imagined it was kind of how animals felt when they sensed there was a storm coming. It was their fight or flight instinct – or what we would call 'fight or flight'. Physically I knew I was fine; I didn't have a stomach-ache or a headache or anything like that, so it had to be psychological or emotional, something like that. And I knew exactly what had triggered it off: my little songstress of a best friend.
Since hearing Rachel sing, as cliché as it sounded, it was like the world suddenly stopped. When I heard her sing, everything felt like a world away. I no longer felt like a hazy girl trying to be the best for my parents, trying to be different but still the same, trying to ignore everything so I could wait for the 'one day' that was inevitable to come. When I heard Rachel sing, I felt nothing but a star. Rachel singing made me feel less like a cloud or a shadow just aimlessly wandering or being stuck being ignored and just 'being there'. Hearing Rachel sing, I felt like a star. Not a star like Rachel but an actual, important star. It's the only way I can describe it. I was a star that was fixed and important and beautiful and appreciated. I felt everything I wanted Rachel to feel. When she kissed my hand and we looked into each other's eyes as we told each other wisdom from our hearts, I felt the calmest I had ever been. But as soon as that stupid bell rang, not only did I feel like a shadowed cloud, but a rock. I was a rock that was stuck the ground and hard and scared. Low and the lowest. All I was feeling was fright and I was tense. At home I felt sick with fear my father would somehow know my secret. I couldn't look him in the eye willingly and tried to make as little conversation as possible.
In the back of my mind, I knew it was only a matter of time before he – and my mom – started asking questions on why I was so abnormally quiet, but I think for now they liked it. They liked that I wasn't constantly making remarks about the economy or the presidential elections and things that 'didn't really concern me' as my father would tell me. My dad might not be so interested in his teenage daughter, but I knew for sure my mom was. Every now and then at the dinner table she would try and strike up a conversation with her eyes, but I would just look away. They say that mothers are the last to know about their child's relationships and whatnot, but for my sake I hoped that it was my father who was the last to know about my secret. If listening to him rattle on about 'the blacks' and the 'the Hispanics' and every other 'minority' in society and how much he hated them, then I only prayed I wouldn't have to be on the receiving end of his rants. They also say that everything is different when it's your own child. You could be supportive of rights at first, but then when there is a hint of your child being in that situation, you change. For my sake again, I only hoped my family would change for the better and not stay exactly the same or worse, change but for the worse.
Meeting with Senorita Lopez on Saturday was a great break. I looked forward to her classes more because of the help I got last week, and I knew this week in school would be the same. However, our tutoring session was not what I expected. As soon as she walked in through the door, I could tell something was wrong and I suddenly felt the same sinking, sick feeling I had been feeling since Wednesday afternoon: something was wrong and I suddenly really wanted to help, as if helping her would somehow help me. She walked in through the door dressed the same as last week – casual – but what remained again was the fact she had her shades on. It was like she was trying to hide. Like a movie star; they always wore shades to hide themselves. I didn't get it until she sat down and took them off. Her eyes were the reddest I had ever seen on a person. Even when Kurt's allergies got really bad, his eyes never looked like that. They were so puffy too and it was obvious by how quickly she gulped half her coffee and then her water that she had a headache. I came to one conclusion; she had been crying, a lot.
I just hoped she couldn't tell the same thing about me. I may not have been crying, but I was definitely convinced there was some physical change about me.
Santana Lopez:
As soon as I sat down I knew Quinn was worrying about me. I had even tried to put on more make up than usual to try and hide the bags under my eyes and the wrinkles around them. I'd even git a pimple on my cheek, something I hadn't had to deal with since high school! All the stress of home was taking its toll on me, but as long as I held out until Brittany was ready to talk to me, I would be okay. I hoped. As well as Quinn being able to see my stresses and worries, I could see hers. It was just as hard not to! She may not have looked more tired than I did, but her eyebrow was definitely more creased than usual and her eyes had the same bags as me. I realised as I gulped down some of my coffee that this little meeting was going to be less about Spanish and more about each other. As much as I didn't want it to be, I knew that it was going to be a session of me asking questions and trying to avoid hers.
Nothing had changed since Wednesday. In fact a part of me thought that maybe things had gotten worse. I don't know how they could have gotten worse but it just felt like they had. The house was still silent and dull and the heavy atmosphere was just dragging me down. I was surprised I could go to my classes and teach. I knew Brittany would be okay with dancing. She could dance through anything; physically and emotionally.
During high school, we went through a particularly rough time when my mi abuela said she didn't want anything to do with me. I had come out to my parents and, to my surprise, they were fine with it. I guess it was a parental thing; they always know about their kids before they do – or at least sometimes they did. Telling my grandmother, therefore, I thought was going to be a breeze. When I told her that I was in love with Brittany, staring by telling her who I really was, that I was a lesbian, and that the feelings had always been inside of me, to telling her that because of Brittany I knew what it was like when people talked about being in love and that I was proud to be who I was because of Brittany, that was too tired to fight with myself any more. It was one of the most emotional speeches I had ever made and I just wished I had recorded it so Brittany would be able to hear it too. I waited for my grandmother's reaction and as the time went by, a sinking feeling was telling me that she would not be as accepting. After that emotional breakdown, and suffering the trauma of being disowned, I began to lose myself. I stopped being so catty to everyone and less bitchy. Brittany, however, brought me back. Coincidentally she had been practising for a dance competition and even though we were going through something so hurtful, she didn't let it get in the way of her performances. She was what brought me back and made me realise that if someone didn't like who I was – who we were – then they didn't matter.
If only it were still the case. I guess that was partly where my fears were coming from.
With the memory of Brittany's bravery through that week and dancing her way through it, it gave me the strength to carry on with my work. Of course, this wasn't always a good thing. Because I was so lonely at home, I stayed at work for as long as possible working on assignments and planning things. Heck, I even made a miniature project for myself; I imagined that the school had a Spanish club and thought of ways to make learning the language could be not only fun, but beneficial to them in their later lives. With me being bilingual – and therefore being able to understand a little bit of French and Italian and tiny bit of Greek because of all the connections – I was able to apply to jobs where they may need people who could talk to clients and co-workers in their own language. For example, when I was working back in San Francisco, there was a large group of Mexicans working there who were suffering from PTSD due to their homes being ransacked and destroyed because of political activists who didn't think they had the right to live in America. My boss was really impressed that I was able to bring in these new clients (even though they didn't have a lot of money) and our practise actually got given an award for equality. On the powerpoint I brought in statistics about why learning Spanish was especially important to them because with the ever increasing Latino business partners making connections with white Americans, they would be able to make a lot more money if they were able to branch out. But, of course, it wasn't just the economical pros I put on my slides. Spanish is the language of love and intimacy so I had to exaggerate the fact that, for the guys especially, being able to sing a song or say romantic things to someone in Spanish was a real turn. At least, for me it used to be.
As well as making this project, I even did more research on the up and coming developments in psychiatry, considering that was my area of profession before I became a teacher. Before I changed my life for my wife. Even though we had – once up on a time ago – talked about me going back to being in the 'business' of being a psychiatrist again once Brittany's dance studios were taken off, I couldn't help but feel slightly bitter at the thought that I wouldn't be able to get inside the minds of clients for a long time. That I wouldn't be able to help people conquer their additions or come to terms with things like loss, not for at least another five years. I guess that was why Brittany was so disheartened by the fact I didn't want a baby right now. But that was going off topic. I had perfectly good reasons for not wanting to start a family. But I couldn't dwell on them. Not now. Not while I had Quinn sitting right in front of me looking like Bambi when he was trying to stand up for the first time.
Sighing I couldn't let the pretense begin. I didn't even get any books out and I even piled her own books together. She frowned slightly and looked at me with a quizzical, inquiring look. Shooting her a smug smile, I shook my head at her; "Unless you're suddenly fluent en Español, then I don't think we're going to get much practice done." She my gaze a little longer and then I saw her slump and sigh just as heavily as I had. With her eyes on the table I could see she was thinking and I waited. I didn't know who should start this conversation. The boundaries were once again blurred and confusing. Tutoring out of school was one thing, but talking about personal things was another. I knew I couldn't talk about my personal life – that was just unprofessional – but I could talk to her about hers. If she wanted to talk, that is. I couldn't push her. Could I? We'd had a few talks that were absolutely personal and private, the sex talk for one, but didn't I have duty of care to uphold? She looked so tired. And stressed. As much as she assured me that she was doing well in all her classes apart from Spanish, what if she was lying and she wasn't this brainbox she had made herself out to be. I remembered how tough school was. I wasn't a genius but I wasn't stupid; I knew I how hard school was and college work was just as tough. But if she wasn't worried about school, then she might have been stressed about something at home. She hadn't talked much about her family, other than her parents (her father especially) expected near perfect grades. Maybe the pressure from home to do well in school was what was making her so tired? Or maybe it had nothing to do with school work. Maybe she was being bullied. Being the new kid was tough, but to me she looked like someone who could handle it. Maybe I was just assuming things again. Like Brittany assumed I would want a baby right now…
Snapping myself out of my thoughts, I took another sip of coffee and made a loud satisfied sigh. Putting the mug back down on the table, I saw Quinn look up at me. Her head lifted slowly and her eyes stared at me through her long eyelashes. Even though she was almost legally an adult, she looked so young. Her face was angelic and sweet and it reminded me of Brittany – both a young one, and the present one. Bu there was something so mature about Quinn that I couldn't quite figure it out. Shoulders shrugging slightly she asked, "So what do you want to talk about?" Ah ha, she had given me leverage. This meant I was open to starting the conversation, and being the teacher, I could take a slight advantage. Leaning forward slightly, I pretended to think, tilting my head, before stating; "Why don't you tell me what's been bothering you." She reacted just as I thought she would: practically shooting back in her seat and almost scowling at me. "What are you talking about?" Her tone was defensive and I was concerned. I expected her to be a little on guard, but not so snappy. I relaxed my position a little more and decided to just be point blank: it had always worked before! "You look really stressed and tired, Quinn," I told her and saw that she shifted her eyes slightly. Now that she knew I had noticed, I dropped my tone, softening it slightly to let her know that I was completely on her side and wouldn't tell on her if there was something wrong. "I just want to know if everything's okay, and if things aren't okay I want to help you." Her head bobbed slightly as she listened to me.
At least she was listening to me and she hadn't left yet.
For a little while longer, she continued to think and I was hoping that I hadn't crossed the line I was so desperate not to cross in a bad way. I wanted to make everything as relaxed as possible. But seeing her thinking about what she possibly was going to say, was that bothering me just as much as it was probably bothering her. As far as I was aware, she probably was just uncomfortable with talking about something personal. Again, we'd had a sex talk, but that was completely accidental. This was on purpose and I really just wanted to make sure she was okay. Then she sighed and I knew that I was going to hear what was bothering her, why she looked so tired. Shrugging her shoulders once again and keeping her eyes down and hands around her mug, she spoke quietly and began to reveal her thoughts. "I guess I just," she began and then paused, recollecting once again. My fingers were gripping into the seat I was sitting on. Quinn was a tough nut to crack and I was amazed she was considering opening up to me. God knows how long it took for her to find (and then use) the courage to ask me for help with tutoring!
With her eyebrows still furrowed, she suddenly broke out of her little thinking trance and then heaved a great sigh. Practically throwing her body so she could change sitting positions, she wiped the hair out of her face and looked me dead on in the eyes. "I guess lately I've just been feeling…" Again, she was stuck on what she was trying to say, and I was trying to be encouraging; bobbing my head and widening my eyes. Again she growled and sighed at the same time, flipping her hair once again. "I guess I just feel weird, like…different and not in a good way. Like…" Stopping herself from rambling nonsense – I assumed – she bit her lip and sighed again, slumping her shoulders forward. Her head shook and I was about to ask her if she wanted to elaborate, but she continued, her finger drawing circles on the table. "I guess being different is suddenly becoming harder than I thought it would be," her eyes flickered to mine as she chanced a look at my reaction, seeing that my face was still (I hoped) calm and understanding, she went back to looking at the brownish red table we were sat at. "I have to be different though. I have to remain different to survive and yet, I don't want to be this kind of different. Being different of any kind is not as great as I thought it was going to be and…and I don't know what to do."
My eyebrows knotted together. She spoke as if she was reciting a monologue from some modern Gothic novel. She made sense but I guess only in her own mind. Her eyes were…not scowling, but were fixed on something so small I assumed she was trying to look inside her own head. Still, if she was some sort of android, I imagined beams of a powerful laser coming from her pupils and I was worried if she stared any longer she would get some sort of headache or eye strain. Gently, not caring about the boundaries any more, I placed my hand on top of hers where it was balled up into a fist by her coffee mug. Bringing my head closer to hers, I tried to get the thoughts of how this would look if one of my colleagues walked in but then decided I didn't care. Licking my lips once and clearing my throat as silently as possible I asked in a gentle tone I only ever used with Brittany; "What do you mean?" However, whatever spell she had been put under, as soon my lips were brought back together, her eyes shot up to mine and within her hazel-green orbs I saw one emotion: fear.
Suddenly her chair was flung back – reminding me yet again of Brittany – and her fist was pulled from under mine. Under breath she was mumbling something along the lines of "Nothing" and "I shouldn't have said anything" as she scrambled about trying to shove her books back in her bag. Still sat in my seat I tried to calm her down, but it was useless. I was useless. Slinging the straps of her backpack over her shoulders she looked at me, but not meeting my eyes, and shook her head.
"I…I have to go." She stuttered and ran towards the door. As soon as I saw she was about to leave, I took stood up and kicked my own chair back, calling after her; "Quinn? Quinn!" But it was too late. No matter how loudly I called after her, stood up in the middle of the damn coffee shop, or even if I ran out to her, there was no stopping her. She was spooked, like a deer in the wild, and I wasn't getting her back. I just hoped she would talk to me again. Clearly she was going through something personal and, not just as her teacher, I wanted to help her.
Quinn Fabray:
I couldn't believe what I had done. I had almost admitted my biggest secret and fear – to Senorita Lopez nonetheless! – and I was once again running away. I figured that was the kind of person I was now: a runner. Someone who ran away from their problems instead of dealing with them. And once again, I didn't care that the tears were coming hot and fast.
Santana Lopez:
I watched Quinn walk away and couldn't believe I almost pushed her. Things were becoming clearer now, but I had to be sure. If my suspicions were correct, then I was the perfect person for her to open up to; I just had to make her see that.
Quinn Fabray:
The next week, things were different once again. It was like my emotions and hormones just couldn't decide what they wanted me to feel anymore and I was getting sick and tired of it.
Things were getting weirder and weirder; not only was I starting to feel a little disturbed, I was getting scared. I'd never been the type of girl to get random crushes on anyone before, but now I was really starting to think I knew what was going on with me. Sure I had said it in my head that I…that I liked Rachel, and that I had sort of admitted it to Senorita Lopez, but I never thought I would act upon it. Once again, seemingly small events were having huge, gigantic effects on me and I didn't like it. For one, I was starting to look at Rachel more intently. This was the first worrying thing. Of course she was beautiful. She had that kind of beauty where not many people would notice it unless you pointed it out. To everyone else, I'm sure; she was just a badly dressed brunette with a big Jewish nose and a large mouth, a short girl with not much going for her in the looks department. But on Monday when I saw her at her locker, once again time slowed and the world stopped spinning. I wasn't sure if it was the light or the way she was angled, but I had to stop and stare at her because I had never seen her look so…so…radiant.
Again to an outsider there was nothing much to notice about her; she dressed once again in a thick block coloured sweater (red) with an animal on it (an owl), a short plaid skirt (blue and green) and knee high socks with her Mary Janes, finishing her look off with her hair swept over one shoulder and pinned back with a single clip. But because I was seeing her through a completely different set of eyes, I noticed the other things. The important things. The beauty that was Rachel Berry. She was reading something – no doubt sheet music – and her brow was furrowed ever so slightly in concentration. Her lips were pouted in a small round, puckered shape and the longer I stared, the more I was trying to work out if the shine on those suckable lips was from lip-gloss or her own saliva. And a part of me wished it came from her tongue. My eyes drifted to her legs and I could see that, yes where her body was short her legs were certainly a sensual pair; tanned, endless and smooth. Finally they drifted back up her body and stopped where her breasts rested under her sweater. As hard as I tried I could not get my eyes to move from her breasts. I wanted to, God I wanted to, but they wouldn't. I couldn't be caught ogling another girl's chest! I mean, sure in gym class we had all checked out each other's bodies but that was just a comparison thing. Some of the cheerleaders did it specially so they could tease us 'mere mortals' and try to make us jealous. It was the same with Senorita Lopez; I looked at her breasts purely as a comparison thing. But what I was doing was definitely not a comparison test. For one, I was mesmerised by the way her chest rose and fell with each precious breath she took. I'd never flat out asked what size bra she was, but right now I didn't care. I didn't care if they were small or large; like the rest of her, she was perfect.
Finally I stopped staring at her chest and went back to her face. My favourite part about her. I loved her face. I could look at it all day. And that's what I did. In Spanish class (and the other classes we shared together) I couldn't help but watch the way her facial muscles twitched a little as she thought about something, or the different expressions she would make throughout the classes. And this was what worried me the most I think; the fact that I was now spending more time in class making mental notes about her face rather than the stuff we were supposed to be learning. I tried to focus, but somehow I would always find my eyes falling back to Rachel. Once she caught me looking at her and I, of course, looked away immediately. However, instead of being freaked out by it, I heard her light, musical giggle. The sound, like her singing voice, made me smile and I couldn't help but look back at her. She laughed a little harder, trying to muffle the sound so not to distract anyone or get caught, and I could tell she was giggling at the deep blush that dusted my cheeks. A few moments later, a note fell to my desk and I grabbed it straight away.
Of course it was from Rachel and the words, written in her splendid handwriting, made me beam: "See something you like, huh Fabray?" She accompanied her sly, flirty note with a winky face and a little star after her name. Flirty note? I'd never written flirty notes before, except to Kurt in mock ways when we were making fun of the popular kids. Still, I had to send one back and so I tried really hard to tap into my inner flirt. Being a romance book work, however, I could only think of sappy, borderline creepy things to write back. So, I took a chance – a really deep breath – and scribbled back in the space beneath her message; "Perhaps, only the most gracious girl to fall from the heavens. If I may be so bold, Miss Berry, your namesake is a perfect match; do those lips come in all Berry flavours or just Rachel?" So, reading it back I couldn't help cringe at how cheesy it was. What started off as kind of romantic just turned into the worst thing in the world. Still, I couldn't cross it out and start again; she'd already been waiting so long for a reply! So, gritting my teeth and already anticipating the even deeper blush that was going to appear on my cheeks as soon as she opened the note, I gave it back to her.
Whilst she read it, I didn't dare look at her. This was the one time my eyes had no problem with looking and focusing on something else. Still, just because my eyes were focused, didn't mean other parts of me weren't. As soon as I dropped the note on her desk, my foot began to tap against the leg of my chair and my fingers couldn't stop fidgeting. Even though only a few seconds had past, I seriously thought a whole lifetime had gone by. I needed to know, what did Rachel think of it? Was it too weird? Was she grossed out by the idea of me staring at her lips? She did she feel offended by the fact I made fun of her name? Was she offended I mentioned heaven? Did Jews even have heaven? I was working myself up. I was going to have a heart attack or an aneurism or something if she didn't give me the note back. But, lucky for me, not long after I had started contemplating just ripping it back from her and screaming that I wished I could turn back time, a new, fresh note was placed delicately onto my desk.
Glancing a chance at Rachel I was taken aback by her face – once again! Instead of the confident smirk on her lips, she held her bottom lip in a death grip between her teeth, her eyes had a slight worry glow in them and her cheeks were definitely a little pinker than before. Was she blushing too? Was she second guessing what she had written too? Was she scared? Not wanting to keep her in a state of limbo any more, I went back to the note in my hand and carefully unravelled it reveal a whole 'page' of words; "Miss Fabray, I do believe you are the one to have bestowed upon us wretched humans a gift of grace, elegance and beauty. I am but a mere splodge in comparison to you on this Earth and I can only dare say, and admit, that as far as lips are concerned, yours are the most luscious and mine are mere tools for communicating with you. Forever your humble servant, and friend, Rachel Berry." My heart soared a little. Where I could see she was trying to keep a theme of olden day letter writing, I couldn't believe she had gone through the trouble of writing such a note. I was glad she had written it on a separate one because there was no way I was getting rid of it. This was being framed and pinned on my wall. Or at least, being put next to my bed so I could see it as the first thing when I woke up and the last before I went to sleep. In a way it was better than a photograph; I already had her face memorised and now I had this note. It was so personal and beautiful, almost as beautiful as her voice and face.
Without looking back, I wrote her another note on a separate piece just like she did, and prayed once again I hadn't crossed the line. "Miss Berry, your words are as stunning as your voice and face. Nothing can compare to your rare beauty and for that, I thank you for sharing your presence with me. Forever and always, your own more than humble servant and friend, Quinn Fabray." When Rachel read this note, I swore I heard her gasp, but that could have just been my imagination. If we really we back in the days of love letters and long distance, I imagined she would gasp and maybe even shed a tear. But considering we were in a classroom, it was more than probable we would both just have to keep our romantic emotions to ourselves. By romantic, obviously pretend romance. I may have…well, we were friends and we were allowed to do things like this: it was what friends did.
However what friends did not do was exactly what I did Thursday night. After almost a whole school week of sending Old English styled 'letters' within classes, my emotions and hormones were running marathons. Thursday night I was particularly tired and decided to have a bath and relax. I hadn't had a bath in a long time, always opting to take showers as they were more economical. Instead of just having any bath though, I took an hour of my evening to really soak. I but bubbles in it, dimmed the lights and put on a selection of classical music on. The water was so warm and calming I couldn't help but moan at how great it felt to finally have my muscles really worked at. Having a shower beat down on me every day was great, but to be surrounded by warm water was sensational. I didn't even bother to pick up the book I was going to read. Simply closing my eyes and throwing head back on the slippery slope of the tub and inhaling the vanilla scent of the candles was all I needed. With my eyes closed, the music filling my ears and the scent driving itself through me, I let the stresses of the week all leave my body. I felt so relaxed. As relaxed as when I heard Rachel sing for the first time. The bath was heaven and if Rachel had come from heaven, then I only ever wanted to be with her here.
At that thought my eyes snapped open. Suddenly I was feeling things again. Not just emotional feelings, but physical ones. I wasn't naïve or ignorant, I knew what was happening, but I couldn't let it. I had only been in the tub for about fifteen minutes and I really wasn't ready to get out and step out into the reality. But I realised that this was my reality. No matter what setting or surrounding I was in, I would always have these wandering thoughts and feelings. The bath was no longer relaxing and in fact it was kind of suffocating. So reluctantly, I had to get out. Wrapping myself up in a towel, draining the bath and blowing out the candles I stomped back to my room with my iPod and docking stating in tow. Instead of continuing with homework or reading (which was what I was going to after my relaxation) I crawled into bed after drying off and putting on pyjamas and going straight to sleep.
Of course, my torture didn't end there.
During the night I had one of the strangest yet pleasurable experiences of my life. The scene before my eyes was, at first, hazy and cloudy. I didn't know what was going on, but it was a dream and that's how dreams worked. It was dark. Wherever I was, was lit with a single candle – kind of like in the opening of The Phantom of the Opera movie – and then I felt it. And heard it. Soft breath on the back of my neck. I was naked. I knew that because I felt a strange feeling touch me. I felt my nipples harden and my whole body feel like jelly. I was stuck to the ground, but I felt the breath again and I felt myself sway. Then I felt hands. Not just any hands, but hands on my breasts and they squeezed. Small, dainty, delicate hands were squeezing my breasts and it felt amazing. I moaned and tipped my head back, clenching my fists. My head rested on a shoulder and I felt the breath again, this time on my face and I opened my eyes. They widened as I saw whose were staring back down at me. Unmistakably, the chocolate eyes I was gazing into were Rachel's. As soon as I had figured it out, I felt my pupils dilate (and because it was a dream, I really could feel them) and I felt a surge of confidence and I grabbed the back of her neck and pressed her lips hard against mine.
Our first kiss. It may have been in a dream, but it was spectacular and I didn't want it to end. She was naked as well and I felt her twist into me and our bodies pressed against one another's and it elected another sound from me. From both of us. Suddenly it turned wild. We were kissing more frantically. One of her hands was still on my breast, kneading it and squeezing it, tugging on the nipple, but the other was also in my hair. It pushed both of my hands through her hair and scratched at her scalp. During some moments we broke a part to breathe but then dived right back in. Our moves were open and our tongues were duelling together. It was sloppy and loud and I loved it. Like in my bath, I felt myself get wet but this time I didn't care. Instead I took charge again and pulled myself away. Before did what I wanted to do, I stared at her face and my top lip quivered into a sly, almost vampire-ish, snarl and nipped at her bottom lip, dragging it and suck it. Her eyes bugged and her knees gave way, but I caught her. Taking her arms I made her wrap herself around me to keep her from falling. She gripped onto my bare bottom and lower back and held herself there. Then, once she was secure, I latched myself onto her neck. I liked and kissed and nipped, and like a leech I sucked onto her pulse point, smoothing it over with my tongue. She was moaning and her nails were digging into my skin. The pain hurt and it was glorious. It made me bite harder onto her collarbone and I wanted more.
Suddenly a bed had appeared and I picked her up, wrapping her gorgeous legs around my waist and carried her to it. Instead of throwing her down, I lowered her gently onto the sheets – which were ironically pure white – and I kissed, licked and suck up from her belly button and up to her face. My hands gripped at her breasts and I kissed her neck again. She writhed under me and it was fabulous. The noises she was making suddenly made me buck my hips and she gasped. I stopped what I was doing for a second, but then nipped at her lip and winked. Lowering myself again I had somehow situated myself between her legs and positioned myself perfectly.
We stared at each other. Both our chests were rising and falling fast and our breaths were coming out in laboured pants. Rachel looked just a little terrified. And I imagined so did i. But then we smirked and she moved a strand of my hair from my eyes. Nothing needed to be said, and within a few seconds were rocking up into each other and sliding along each other. Then, as in all wonderful dreams, I woke up. Wet. Not just because of the sweat and tears I had somehow cried, but wet because I was completely and utterly aroused. And in need of want – ironically.
I didn't need to know what time it was to know that it was late. I was lying in my bed once again, and this time with sticky, wet pyjama bottoms. And I wanted nothing more than to give into a desire I had only heard girls talk about in the locker rooms. I had never touched myself down there before, except to wash, and a part of me felt repulsed and disgusted. I never understood why girls did it. I knew boys did it, but they were sex crazed and only ever thought with that body part. Well, boys like Puck anyway. I knew that girls could do it and I had heard from several Cheerios that they had to do it because their boyfriends weren't good enough at getting them off. But I had never done it and I thought, did I really want to? With the way I was throbbing, however, I guess my body was telling me that yes, I did. Time passed once again and after going over the pros and cons in my head – the cons being it sounded a little gross and it was different and I would feel like a slutty Cheeerio, the pros being it would relieve some of the tension that had built up – I slipped my hand down the front of my pyjama pants and touched myself. A part of me still felt a little disgusted but…liked it. And I liked it, because thinking of Rachel…made me feel good. At first I wasn't thinking of anything or anyone, just focusing on what my hand was doing. But as I got more and more into it, my mind once again drifted to Rachel. Which was bad and wrong…but if it really felt this good (and judging by the results) then why do I feel so ashamed?
Why was everything so confusing? As well as being wet down there, I was wet up top because of tears once again. I hated all this crying and realised I needed to do something. And the only thing I could think of was possibly talk to Santana.
Santana Lopez:
I think I could say with confidence that things were getting out of control. My week at home was beginning to suffocate me even more and I was seriously contemplating going to Principle Figgins with my ideas for a Spanish club just so I could put my energy into something other than worrying about the state of my marriage. For yet another week I barely saw Brittany and when I did, she looked so different. She was pale and tired, but most of all she was sad. Sad Brittany was the worst kind of Brittany in the world and it made me not only mad, but sad too just watching her be a shell of herself. I'd heard of people needing space but for this long? I was concerned about her. As far I could tell she was exactly the same weight and build and so she was still eating and taking care of herself. But why she was so pale was puzzling. There probably nothing wrong with her. It must have been due to the fact I was so used to seeing her with rosy, smiling cheeks. Her eyes had changed too. The no longer glistened or smiled. I couldn't stand to look at her when I saw her in the kitchen or just idly watching television. I wanted so badly to rub her feet or her shoulders, cook her some dinner or just talk to her. But I couldn't. She asked for space. She wanted space. She needed space. And I was going to give her space. When she was ready to talk then I would be ready. I just hoped she wasn't keeping things bottled up any more than I was.
Surprisingly enough, my outlet wasn't a colleague from work – like Will or Emma – or my mom. My confidante happened to be my student. It was weird, but again on Saturday I could see yet again Quinn wasn't herself. She had been off in class and now I wanted to know why. My first surprise was that she still showed up. After the (yet another) disaster of last Saturday, I didn't think she would ever return. But no, she was there with two coffee mugs and even a raspberry and white chocolate muffin. The only difference was, she had no books with her or at least if she did they were all in her backpack.
Cautiously I sat down and instead of taking a sip of my drink, I crossed my arms and looked at her. She mirrored my stance and expression, the only difference being she raised her eyebrow and it looked like she was challenging me. Her attitude was completely different than last week's and I automatically intrigued.
Quinn Fabray:
Just like last Saturday, Santana could tell right away I was stressed out. I knew was going to want me to talk to her about it but there was just no way I could tell her I was having sex dreams about Rachel. Well, one sex dream. That was just too personal. And weird. In the short time I had known her, I didn't want to freak her out or make her not like me and by me telling her that she would definitely no longer want to be my teacher let alone be my tutor. As well as Santana being able to see I wasn't my usual self, I could so tell that there was something wrong with her too. I mean, last week we were so close to letting things out and getting stuff off our chests. Would it be okay to do the same thing now? Would it be appropriate? Although I didn't want to tell her about the sex dream, I could just tell her how I'd been feeling. Right? I mean, she was a teenager once (by the looks of her, not so long ago) and so she had to know how I was feeling. Right? Besides what I was going through was probably normal and every girl does it. Right? Besides, maybe we could help each other out. We were sort of friends and…and that's what friends did. Right?
We stared each other out and I waited a little while longer before laying down the rules for this game we were so obviously about to play. I knew that the raising of my eyebrow would impress her. I saw her lips twitch as she fought back a smirk. Or a smile. I wasn't sure which. But after a few seconds – or hours, who knew how long these showdowns lasted for – I was ready to talk. Well, I had a few ground rules and I was ready to lay them down. So I told her. Still with my arms folded I announced; "I have some ground rules." Impressed by my boldness, she nodded her head and raised her own eyebrows to indicate for me to continue. Not needing to clear my throat I simply began to talk; "One, absolutely nothing either of us says leaves this bubble of trust we have created, okay?" Immediately she nodded her head and her expression changed to that of complete seriousness. She wanted to say something, but I wouldn't let her. I couldn't allow her to be 'the teacher' in this scenario. She was my friend and I was confiding in her. I hoped she would show me the same courtesy, which was why I hesitated slightly when I told her my final rule. "I will only talk, if you talk back." In my mind, I imagined her asking me what I meant but by the way her face hardened slightly and her posture stiffen a little, I knew she understood perfectly.
For a few minutes she contemplated it. She contemplated my ultimatum, no doubt thinking of ways to get out of it. But, that was the deal. She could either accept my conditions and we could move forward, or she could disagree with them and we would go back to meeting simply for educational reasons. However, when her head nodded just as fraction and when she parted her lips, I knew that we were going to move forward. And I was a little terrified once more. The butterflies reproduced tenfold and I was suddenly anxious. "Okay," she said quietly, flickering her hair behind her shoulder, "I accept your conditions, Miss Fabray," her eyes were shining and the way she said my name sent a shiver shooting through me, reminding me of course of Rachel. Leaning forward, she slyly said one more word; "Talk."
The bubble of fantasy burst, but the bubble of trust – as I so originally called it – was still very much intact. I was nervous. I was no longer playing a game. I wasn't 'The Don' or the boss. I was Quinn: scared little Quinn Fabray who no longer had the confidence to hide behind the alter ego of Miss Fabray. Sighing I leaned forward too and licked my lips. Suddenly they were dry, but I didn't want coffee. I couldn't drink because that would only take longer, making this whole 'confession' thing harder. And really, I just wanted it over as soon as possible. "I'm afraid you won't understand," I began, feeling and sounding little defeated. But I couldn't stop. I had to keep going. Staring down into the wooden pattern of the table I continued; "Lately I've been troubled by some thoughts," I shrugged, "Private thoughts. I've been having unnatural feelings for other girls for a while now and I guess I just thought that if I moved here then my thoughts would be different and I wouldn't feel them anymore." I took a breath and looked up at my teacher, hoping she wouldn't find me weird and be grossed out. But if anything, she nodded her head and looked like she understood. She couldn't, but it was nice she was making an effort.
Before I had a chance to go back into my shell and tell her to forget everything I had said, Senorita Lopez announced in a deadly serious tone; "That's stupid Quinn. You're feelings aren't going to change no matter in the world where you are. No matter where you are or how you act you are always going to have these feelings and, I'm sorry to say, there is nothing you can do but embrace it." She took a breath from her words of wisdom and then took a long gulp of her – surely cold – coffee. I frowned at her. How on earth could she dish out such good advice and so I asked her; "How could you possibly know that I won't ever get rid of these thoughts? Maybe it's a phases!" As soon as I had exclaimed that, she raised her eyebrow at me and said, in a slightly cocky voice; "Alright, maybe you should experiment. You're young and free so you can do what you want." Then she leaned in closer to me, so I leaned in too, as if we were sharing some massive secret. "Make out with a guy and then make out with a girl and see which one you like more." To me it seemed so obvious: I'd made out with same and ran away in tears, I had a sex dream about Rachel and woke up dripping wet with desire. Surely it would be easy.
But, I couldn't help but bring myself back to reality. I sighed, "That would be harder than it sounds," and not to my surprise she shrugged; "Life is never easy."
In the moments that past between us, I thought about her advice. I guess it would solve a few things, but was I really ready to kiss Rachel or at least attempt to? Would she let me? Would she freak out? I mean, I hoped not, but what if she did? Still, instead of dwelling on it, I looked up at Senorita Lopez and smiled; "I've told you my problems, now it's your turn, Senorita Lopez. Spill."
Santana Lopez:
Quinn's confidence was suddenly back and now it was my turn to be scared. I figured the best way for this to go, was to be completely honest. After all, she had just confided in me possibly the hardest confession anyone would ever have to admit. And I was damn proud of her and actually felt a little emotional that she chose me above everyone else to come out to. Well, not come out to, but confide in. I was so proud that I didn't even feel scared about telling her my own secret. I knew it was a risk, telling a student that I was gay, but I figured hey, we're possibly in the same boat: what as the worst that could happen?
Taking a shaky breath, I gripped my coffee mug and sighed. "My marriage isn't going so well and it's all my fault." Like a true grown up, Quinn simply nodded her head and expected me to continue. Licking my lips, trying once again to figure out how to word what I wanted to say, I looked into my coffee mug and saw my reflection. For some reason, it gave me strength and I was ready. "The problem is, that my other half wants to have a baby, and I'm not ready for one. We've been living pretty separate lives for…I don't know, three weeks now and…and I'm really scared." My voice faltered a little and it cracked. I could see Quinn really wanted to outstretch her hand and hold onto me, but she didn't and I was glad: I had a feeling if she touched me, I would start crying and I really needed to keep it all together.
Having enough time to compose myself, I looked up at Quinn and realised I now had to explain further. Feeling the need to cry vanish, I sat myself up right and I cleared my throat. She knew I was about to professional and serious; she sat up too and actually clasped her hands together in front of her. "Quinn," I started, my voice an octave lower than usual and I knew she was going to follow everything I was going to tell her and ask her to do. She was perfect; the best confidante in the world. "I'm going to tell you something and you have to promise me that you won't tell anyone." She answered immediately that she wouldn't but I had to make sure. Shaking my head I made her really understand just how serious this was. "No I need you to swear to me you won't mention it to anyone or anything. My job could be at stake." Eyes wide and I hoped not scared, she nodded her head frantically, reminding me a child that really wanted to know the end of a story. Practically bouncing on her seat she whisper exclaimed; "I promise Santana I won't say anything." For the first time since our first meeting together like, she called me by my first name and for me, that meant that she wouldn't tell a soul. I could have not meant anything, but to me in that moment, it meant she was going to an amazing girl and not tell anyone.
Having held her gaze for far too long, I took another breath and said as quietly as possible without whispering the secret I had been keeping from everyone in this town; "I…have a wife." As I thought, she looked at little startled. Her eyebrow rose again and she spluttered; "What?" And it was as if we were in a movie. Clearing my throat, I tried to sound as nonchalantly as possible; "I'm a lesbian Quinn." And the penny dropped for her because her other eyebrow joined its partner near her hairline and her jaw dropped a little. "Oh." She gasped, quietly of course and I nodded my head at her asking; "So do you see now why I do understand? You see that I understand exactly what you're going through." Releasing a breath she was holding Quinn nodded her head and turned solemn and pensive. "Yeah," she whispered, "Absolutely."
For a minute we both remained in a peaceful silence. Again I could see her cogs and wheels turning inside her head and I was fascinated by how many thought I could see just by watching her facial expression. Once again, she reminded me of Brittany and I had to smile. Then she looked up and asked me; "So is that why you're so afraid of starting a family? Because you're scared of what people will think?" The kid – well, young adult – had got it in one. Exhaling loudly I nodded my head and muttered; yes that was why I didn't want to have baby. Then she stretched and clicked her neck, trying to not sound so bothered or interested – the same as I had tried to do. "Well I think you should talk to your other half. I mean, surely they will understand. It's not exactly the most welcoming town to minorities. Especially where there are people like my father around." I smiled when she used the vague pronouns, but it disappeared when she mentioned her dad. I felt sorry for her and wanted to tell her not to worry about him, but of course she had to. I didn't want what happened to me happen to her and she had to be careful.
Instead of saying that however, I chuckled and said; "I guess we both need to talk to our other halves, but do we want to?" She laughed with me and became suddenly very wise by saying we all had to do things we didn't want to do.
We both left the coffee shop with the weights on our shoulder les heavy. We both left knowing what we had to do: Quinn had to get over her fears and talk to whoever it was she was crushing on and try a few things out and I had to talk to Brittany. I had the perfectly plan, I just hoped I didn't get it wrong yet again.