Super long A/N:
(Few random replies first) -
To the anon who was happy to see Brittany as "her bubbly friendly excited childlike self" in Ch. 8, I'm glad you liked it, but it's actually canon that Brittany is annoyed by Rachel. ;) Outside of performances she's been pretty mean to her, and in 3.02 she even told her she hated her, Lol. And as far as this fic being a continuation of Season 3, for the most part it is, but when it comes to Brittany, it's more a continuation of Season 2. I'm not a fan of how the new writers have handled her character. I much prefer the more fleshed-out, quirky-instead-of-childlike version we were getting during the major Brittana arc in late Season 2. (And I've never seen her as particularly bubbly or excited, anyway. She speaks in a monotone, and she doesn't even smile all that much during her lines.)
extendedmetaphors: Yes, the whole "love vs in-love" convo from Ch. 4 will absolutely come back into play; it's kind of what the whole story is driving towards. I never meant to drag the conclusion out for so long, but I keep getting distracted by other side stories I want to tell.
To the anon who left the link to that collage, and to the person who made it, that was so amazing and inspiring! I don't know if I was ever intended to see it or not, but I'm so glad I did. :)
Random note - the version of "In My Life" in this chapter is somewhat inspired by Allison Crowe's version on You Tube; or at least that's the closest fit I could find to what I had in my head.
And now, about this chapter, I apologize for taking so long with this update. But it's almost twice as long as the last one, and took twice as long to write. It was also the hardest to write because it means the most to me. I've been so angry and disappointed ever since seeing the way Santana's outing and its aftermath were handled in 3.06 and 3.07, and the recent 3.16 was another reminder to me that they just aren't capable of writing Santana with any real respect for what she went through, or even of understanding the kind of effect it could have on an actual teenage girl. I still hope to see it, but the hope is fading fast.
So this is my attempt to deal with it, and to work out some of my own issues through the character. I hope for some people it can be a bit cathartic the way it was for me, and if anyone is offended or disturbed, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I have no betas and no one has read this but me, so I honestly don't know how readers will respond. Please be honest and let me know.
To those who review, thank you again... I don't know how I can say it enough. It means the world to me.
Chapter 9
On their side of the court, Santana watched Brittany toss the tennis ball into the air, and then in the same smooth motion raise the racquet high above her head to give it a resounding whack, her natural coordination making it look as though she'd been doing this for years. The ball sailed over the net in a perfect arc, dropped gracefully down just in front of the service line... and then bounced off the top of Rachel's head as she cowered in terror.
"Damn it, Berry, at least try to hit it!" Santana yelled across the net, exasperated.
"How can I try to hit it when you both keep deliberately aiming at my nose? You think I don't see what's going on here? You're ganging up on me!"
With a heavy sigh, Santana looked over at Brittany, shaking her head. "Hopeless. It's hopeless."
"Serve this one to me!" Kurt called out. He bent his knees and rocked from one foot to the other, crouched in preparation, as if he actually had a clue what he was doing.
"Okay, you big baby, relax. This one's not yours," Santana said reassuringly, getting another ball and passing it to Brittany. With an air of distrust, Rachel loosened her stance, letting the racquet hang by her side.
Again, Brittany tossed the ball in the air, bounced up on her toes to hit it, and watched as it soared across the court and smacked Rachel square in the middle of her chest before she even had a chance to raise her arms in protection.
"Brittany!"
Ducking her head a little and trying to hide her triumphant smile, Brittany said, "Sorry, it slipped." Santana laughed too, unable to help herself. It was just too easy.
"Stop being tennis bullies!" Kurt lectured them. "You know, I do believe it's my turn to serve, anyway."
Although it technically wasn't his turn, none of them bothered to argue the point. They hadn't had much luck figuring out the intricacies of this strange, complicated, and in Santana's words, "super-white"game. Brittany had seemed relieved to see that it wasn't just her; that the rules were confusing for all of them. What was the difference between a game and a set and a match? Why did the points jump from fifteen to thirty? Why was zero called love? "It's so delightfully snooty and British," Kurt had remarked.
Now Rachel picked up one of the numerous balls that littered their side of the court and passed it to him with a tentative underhand throw. He caught it, looking pleased with himself. Then he stared at it for a few seconds of intense concentration, tossed it up, swung... and missed entirely. The ball bounced back down in front of him.
On the other side of the court, Brittany crossed her arms, bored.
"Just warming up!" he called.
"That was really good technique, Kurt," Rachel told him with enthusiasm.
"Why thank you, Rachel." He took a deep breath, gathered his focus, and then tried it again. This time, the racquet connected with the ball. It connected so well, in fact, that the ball sailed over not just the net, but the other side of the court, the fence separating the court from the rest of the NYADA campus, and the row of decorative hedges beyond the fence.
"Home run!" Rachel exclaimed, as she and Kurt hopped around and cavorted in celebration, hanging from each other's necks.
Brittany shook her head. "Nope."
"But... we get points, right?"
"No, you don't get any points, geniuses," Santana said, at the end of her patience. "It has to be inside the lines!"
Rachel attempted to bargain. "I think you should give us points anyway. For motivation!"
"Well, see, we would," she said with a smirk, "But that would be encouraging cheating, and we just don't want to raise you kids that way."
Brittany added, trying to be fair, "You can have a do-over, though. Just... try not to do that, over. I think you might have killed a bird." She started to toss Kurt another ball, but now he was holding a small powder compact, looking into the mirror and applying the puff to his nose.
"What is he doing?" Santana demanded.
"You can say what you want, but physical exertion is no excuse to get shiny," he told her. "Did Cheerios teach you nothing?" He adjusted his fluffy white sweat band, which matched the pristine brightness of his preppy alligator shirt and his embarrassing too-short khaki shorts.
"Kurt, come on!" Brittany begged.
Santana added, " "I am seriously about to go all John McEnroe on somebody."
Finally, after deliberately taking his time, he put the compact away. He got another ball, and on this third attempt at a serve, he managed to hit it in the vicinity of Santana. Surprised, she swung just in time and sent it back over the net. With a cringe of fear, Rachel raised her racquet to defend her face, and by chance the ball hit it and bounced back over the net again. This time Brittany returned it, in Kurt's direction. He ran forward to smack it, but it hit the net, not making it over.
"Now we get points!" Santana crowed, jabbing her finger at them in a confrontational way. After a pause, she admitted, "I'm just not sure how many."
"Did you see that? That was incredible!" Rachel gushed to no one in particular. "It was like we were really playing there for a minute!"
"Okay, so why don't we keep it going," Brittany urged them.
"Yes, absolutely," Rachel agreed. "But first, time out!" She made an exaggerated T sign with her hands. "Let's do pictures!"
"Oooh, fabulous idea," Kurt said.
"What?" Santana said. "You can't call a time out!"
Ignoring her, Rachel set up her camera on one of the posts that held the net in place. She and Kurt backed up and positioned themselves in front of it, falling into a series of elaborate poses that seemed to have been rehearsed at some point in the past - first pursing their lips and smooshing their cheeks together, then standing back to back with hands on hips and lifted chins, then facing each other with racquets aloft and exaggerated athletic posturing, all while smiling manically and mugging at the camera.
Brittany came to stand next to Santana, letting her racquet hang at her side. Together they watched Kurt and Rachel, baffled.
"We really have to find some other people to play against," Brittany muttered.
Later, they had lunch at one of the picnic tables next to the court. It was sunny and in the lower sixties, just barely warm enough to sit outside. And despite being right in the heart of Manhattan, it was a quiet, peaceful area, since this section of campus near the fitness center was almost entirely deserted. In fact, other than the ballet barres, it didn't seem that the NYADA fitness center was used for much of anything at all. Santana suspected that they may have been the first people ever on the tennis court. In her opinion, some schools had more money than they knew what to do with.
Kurt brushed sandwich crumbs from his bright white shirt. "You know," he mused, looking down at himself, "I have to admit I was skeptical, but this ensemble is much more flattering than I thought it would be. Would you say this look is more Navratilova, or Billie Jean King?"
"I'd say you look like more of a lesbian than I do," Santana told him, tossing her Coke can into the trash. "So if that's what you were going for, mission accomplished."
"Maybe I should incorporate a tennis number into my musical," he said, as if thinking out loud.
"Oh, that's a good idea!" Rachel said. "Sports numbers are always fun. Much more fun than, say, actual sports, which are terrifying."
Brittany sprinkled crumbled-up Doritos onto the ground for the pigeons. She was standing on the bench, which gave Santana the perfect opportunity to look up her short skirt. It was the only thing that made tennis worth it. "How's your musical going, anyway?" She tossed another handful of chip crumbs, and then licked her palm. "You never did really say what it was about."
Kurt considered. "I guess you could say it's about... a boy from the midwest who goes to a performing arts school in New York City, but then feels stifled and bored and decides to write his own musical. That's the gist of it, anyway." He looked just a tad self-conscious after saying this.
Picking up on his discomfort, Santana gave him an ironic smile. "Well, that is just a super original plot. And tell me... Is the boy in the musical also writing a musical about a boy who writes a musical?"
"Stop it," Brittany said, bringing her hands up to her temples. "I feel dizzy."
Rachel jumped in to his defense. "While it may not be the most creative plot Kurt could have invented, I have to say that from what I've seen so far, it's outstanding work. And besides, most of the best art is drawn from life. Just look at my movie, Metaphors are Important, for example. Even though we're only in the drafting phase, I think Brittany would agree that it's going to be a stunningly evocative meditation on the humble beginnings of stardom."
Brittany shot Santana a look that clearly said she did not, in fact, agree with this at all.
Kurt also seemed to want to distance himself from this particular project. "My show is not entirely based on my life," he clarified. "There are some areas of overlap, of course, but there are also some very key differences."
Santana rested her chin in her hand, leaning forward and feigning interest. "Really. What's the main character's name?"
Now he looked uncomfortable again, but also slightly defensive. He hesitated for a few seconds, then without making eye contact, mumbled, "Kip Hammel."
Obviously enjoying herself, Santana gave him another mocking smile. "Well, I for one think it sounds like the theatrical event of the decade. And I can not wait to find out who'll be playing the no-doubt controversial yet still lovable role of Samantha Lezpez."
Quickly, Rachel swallowed the juice she was drinking and said, "Oh, I've already called dibs on that role. It's got Drama Desk Award written all over it."
"What?" Santana looked at her like she was crazy. "Oh hell no, you are not playing me. Kurt, tell her she can't play me!"
"Can I play Mercedes?" Brittany asked. "When we were in the Troubletones together, people were always getting our voices mixed up. And we both have secret moles in the shape of Pokémon characters."
Trying to be diplomatic, Kurt said, "Why don't we just wait until the script is completed before we worry about the finer details of casting, hmm, ladies?"
Abandoning the argument with reluctance, and with Santana still shooting threatening glances at Rachel, they gathered their things together and prepared to go. As they headed back toward the main entrance, they passed Polly Lin, who was absorbed in a songbook and almost didn't notice them. "Oh, hi," she said, looking up.
"Hello, Polly," Rachel said with forced brightness. Ever since she'd been cast as her understudy, her interactions with Polly had taken on a tinge of desperation. As the date of the revue approached, the urgency was more apparent. "How are you feeling? No signs of illness, I hope? No impending symptoms of West Nile Virus... SARS... throat cancer?"
She gave her a strange look. "No... I'm good."
"Wonderful. I'm so happy to hear it." Rachel's smile looked painful.
Polly started to continue on, but then turned again and asked, "Are you guys coming to that vigil tonight?"
Kurt and Rachel threw each other concerned looks, bothered by the idea that they might be the last to know about something. "What vigil?" Kurt asked.
"Oh... you didn't hear?" She took a few steps back toward them, and then, hesitantly, after a quick, awkward glance at Santana and Brittany, she said, "I thought everyone knew by now. It's so sad. One of our finalists for admission next year, some girl from Kansas, she... she killed herself." Polly lowered her voice discreetly for these last words, even though there was no one else around.
"Oh my God," Rachel said, shocked. "Why? Because she didn't get in?"
"No, actually... she probably would have gotten in. She just didn't know it yet." She paused. "I don't really know all the details." Now she looked behind her, as if she was anxious to be done with this morbid task. "But apparently, someone found her private blog, online? I think her friends were mad at her or something. And they posted screen shots from it, all over school."
They continued to stare at her, blankly, waiting. All except for Santana, who was staring at a crack in the sidewalk, because she already knew what the next words would be.
"She was outed," Polly said, softly.
For a few seconds none of them said anything. Then Kurt broke the silence, echoing Rachel's words. "My God," he said, sounding shocked. "This is terrible."
Still looking at the ground, Santana felt, rather than saw, Brittany shift just the slightest bit closer to her, so that their arms were pressed together. Maybe she wasn't even aware that she did it.
Polly continued. "So anyway, they're having this vigil thing for her tonight, in the banquet hall. Actually I guess it's more of a benefit. They're gonna be collecting money for her family, and for the Trevor Project. Everyone's going."
"Of course, we'll be there," Rachel told her, still sounding stunned. "We wouldn't miss it."
Polly nodded a little, seeming relieved that she'd finished. "Well, I'll see you guys tonight, then." She turned and continued on her way.
Nobody said anything for a minute. Gradually, they started walking again, but slower than before. Maybe it was just her imagination, but Santana thought she could feel the weight of all of them trying their hardest not to look at her. For some reason it made her want to shove somebody.
After a long silence, Kurt spoke. "I just can't believe it. No matter how many times it happens... You never get used to it."
"If they could have just sent her the acceptance letter a little sooner, maybe..." Rachel trailed off.
"It wasn't their fault," Brittany said, quiet. "They couldn't have known."
"No, I know that," Rachel agreed. "And maybe it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. But if she'd only known she could get out of there soon..." She glanced at Santana, and then stopped. Making an obvious effort to get the conversation back onto more neutral footing, she said, "You know, I think I'll call Jesse. If they're trying to raise money, then the more people who attend, the better."
"That's a good idea," Kurt said.
They were back out on 60th Street by now, in front of the main classroom and studio building. Rachel paused while a pair of overweight women in bright sweatshirts, possibly tourists, passed by. Then she suggested, hesitantly, "Santana, maybe you could ask Millie? I know things didn't exactly end well, but... I'm sure she would like to help."
Finally, Santana turned to face them, speaking for the first time in a voice that was harsher than she'd expected. "Yeah, well, I'm sure she wouldn't. And just for the record? I'm not gonna be inviting anybody to this little shindig-of-woe, because I'm not going."
They all looked at her with surprise, even Brittany. "You're not?" she asked.
"Look, it sucks, okay? I'm not saying it doesn't. But just because this girl was crazy enough to want to get into your ridiculous school, let's not pretend you have some big meaningful connection to her. You don't have any idea who she was. You don't know anything about why she really did this. Who the hell knows, maybe she was a nutcase her whole life. I mean, she was applying to NYADA, after all. Think about it. Maybe when show tunes didn't get her the attention she craved, this was, like, her last-ditch desperate effort to steal the spotlight."
Speechless and a bit taken aback, they continued to stare at her. The expressions on their faces, rather than checking her bitterness, only made her want to say something even more outrageous.
"So you guys can all go and light your stupid candles, and hold hands while you sing songs from Rent, and pat yourselves on the back about what awesome enlightened people you are. Just count me out. I can think of like a million better ways to spend my evening. One of which would be cleaning our massive multi-colored hair clog out of the shower drain, because at least that wouldn't be a huge waste of time."
After a shocked silence, Rachel began, "How can you..." but Kurt nudged her, giving her a look and a slight shake of his head that instantly made her stop talking. Rather than being grateful, Santana felt a brief flash of irritation for his solicitude. Even though she knew he didn't mean it that way, it felt patronizing, and at the moment, there was nothing she could tolerate less.
But it was Brittany whose eyes she couldn't meet. And now she was approaching, closer, and Santana knew that in a few seconds she would reach out toward her, to put a hand on the small of her back, maybe, or to thread their fingers together. She knew it by instinct, the familiarity of long intimacy and deep love meaning that she could predict her movements almost as if they were a part of her own body. Without knowing why, she put her hands in her jacket pockets and took a step backward, eluding her.
"You know what, I just remembered," she said suddenly, trying to bring her tone back to casual. "I have to stop by the library to do some research. This history project is really kicking my ass."
"But... you didn't bring any of your stuff with you," Brittany pointed out.
"Yeah, well... it's a library. The books are already there. That's kind of the point."
Unwilling to give up quite yet, she offered, "I can come with you."
"No," Santana insisted, putting even more space between them. "That's okay. You'd just be bored."
At the slightly insulted look on Brittany's face, she hastened to add, "I only meant... because I'll be busy." Before she could say anything else she would regret, she reached up and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and still without making eye contact, turned to go. "I'll see you guys at home later."
Relieved to get away, she crossed the street and walked off, fast, feeling their concerned gazes following her. She didn't look back.
Even though it was a lie she'd made up on the spur of the moment, Santana went to the library anyway, since she had no other particular destination in mind. But instead of going to the one on her own campus, she headed to the main branch of the public library on 42nd Street, losing herself among the ornate vastness and the quiet buzz of other patrons. She even attempted to work on her history research project, but Brittany had been right, of course. She didn't have any of her materials with her, not even her laptop. There wasn't much she could do. For a while she tried to take notes on her phone, but it was more trouble than it was worth.
So she ended up in the periodicals room, thumbing through a stack of magazines. She started out trying to be diligent and studious, focusing on current events and news, but then she somehow moved on to women's magazines, trying to distract herself with their vapid shallowness. There were only so many articles she could endure, however, on the topic of how to please your man in bed, and eventually she found herself with a bound collection of Playboys from the 1950s. Which were, after all, historical, if one wanted to get technical about it. So in a way, she reasoned, she was doing history research. And they most certainly kept her mind off of other things she wanted to avoid thinking about.
After wasting as much time as she could, she finally headed back to Brooklyn, feeling calmer and less brittle now that she'd had some time alone. But still, she couldn't help hoping that they would all be gone by the time she got home. It was only about 6:00, but maybe they would have headed out already? Having never been to one, she didn't have a clue what time these ghoulish get-togethers normally started. Early, she hoped.
Inside the building, she was relieved to see that Pete must have gone inside his apartment to heat up his microwave dinner, since his chair was empty. Lately he'd been getting more and more insistent about details for "the wedding." Only a few days ago he'd accosted her on her way to class and demanded to know whether she and Greta were both going to be wearing dresses, or whether one of them would wear, as he put it, "trousers." As usual, she'd tried to be vague, but he'd given her a bridal catalog anyway, with certain pages folded down at the corners to indicate his suggestions. She hadn't bothered to point out to him that the catalog was from 1987. She couldn't even imagine where he'd found it. But the fact that it was more than twenty years out of date hadn't stopped Rachel from choosing bridesmaids' dresses for their non-existent bridesmaids; garish, colorful concoctions of lace and ruffles that Kurt had described as "part Debbie Gibson, part My Little Pony."
Upstairs, she unlocked the front door and opened it slowly, listening. Everything seemed quiet. Hopeful, she started down the hall to her room. But as she passed the bathroom, she detected the sound of water running, and then the telltale notes of Les Miserables. It was Kurt. Disappointed, Santana closed her eyes for a second. Damn it. It was usually possible to gauge what kind of mood Rachel and Kurt were in by the musicals they chose to sing in the shower. And today, Kurt wasn't even singing, he was humming, which meant he was feeling especially serious. It seemed they were only now getting ready to leave. She should have stayed gone longer. For a split second she considered sneaking out again before anyone noticed she was home, but then decided this was idiotic.
In their bedroom, she found Brittany sitting in front of the vanity mirror, applying light makeup. She looked up as Santana came in. With a slight air of caution, she said, "Hey. How was the library?"
"It was good. I got a lot done," she lied. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began unlacing her sneakers. In the mirror, Brittany watched her, trying to read her, but she kept applying makeup in order to make it seem like she wasn't. Santana wasn't fooled.
"Guess what happened on the way home?" she asked, brushing on eyeshadow. "Some homeless guy tried to give me a baggie filled with magical disappearing juice. He said all you have to do is sprinkle it on somebody, and poof, they just... disappear. But Kurt wouldn't let me take it, because he said it was actually just pee."
Santana nodded a little, amused. "I think he was probably right about that."
"I mean, yeah, it was yellow, but... if you never take a chance on crazy people, who knows, we could be missing out on some really great stuff. Just look at Jack and the Beanstalk. If Kurt had gone with him to take that cow to market, he never would have got the beans at all, and he never would have killed the giant and stolen all his bling."
Pretending to consider the logic of this, Santana said, "Maybe you're right. We could definitely use some giant bling up in here right now... the cable bill is due on Wednesday."
After another few minutes, Brittany turned around and faced her. As if making up her mind after an inner debate, she took a deep breath and began with hesitation. "So... I know you said you don't want to go to that benefit. And, I promise I won't keep asking, if you say no again." She paused, then added simply, "But I really wish you would come with me."
Santana scooted back on the bed a little, drawing her feet up underneath her. For a second she didn't answer. "Britt, why do you want to go to this thing? We're not even students there."
Even though she'd meant the question somewhat rhetorically, Brittany gave it serious consideration, searching for the right answer. But she couldn't seem to put it into words. "I don't know," she admitted. "I just do. It seems important."
She sighed, tracing one of the butterflies on the bedspread with her finger. Somehow, she'd known this would happen. And it was too hard to deny Brittany what she wanted, especially when she asked in that voice, that voice that implicitly said I know you'll do the right thing. Now that she pressed herself, she found she couldn't think of any specific reasons for not going, anyway. It was pure instinct that made her want to avoid it. Maybe this was one of those times when she should trust Brittany's instincts, rather than her own. At least Brittany's seemed to come from a good place.
"All right," she finally said, meeting her eyes and giving in. "If it means that much to you, I'll go."
Brittany smiled a little, grateful. "Thank you." She got up and went to get her shoes from the wardrobe, then sat down next to Santana on the bed in order to put them on, darting searching glances at her while she did so.
"But listen... you're gonna have to stop giving me that look."
"What look?"
"That 'Do you want to talk?' look. Because the answer is no. I don't. There's nothing to talk about." She didn't mean for this to sound so sharp, but she wanted to be clear about it. Because whatever dark thing it was that had threatened to rise up in her when Polly passed along her little piece of gossip this afternoon, it had nothing to do with words. To try to wrap words around it and hold it in place would be like inviting it to stay, and she wanted nothing more than for it to evaporate and disappear, preferably while her back was turned.
"Okay," Brittany said after a second. She said it as if she didn't quite want to agree to this rule, but as if she knew it was the wisest course for now. Then, determined to at least get the most important thing off her chest, she said in a casual way, "I love you, though." Then she looked a bit guilty. "Does that count as talking?"
Santana smiled a little, charmed in spite of herself. "I guess not."
"Good." Brittany leaned closer and kissed her on the shoulder, then balanced her chin there for a second. Santana could feel the warmth of her skin, just inches away from her own. She tilted her head toward her, letting her temple come in contact with Brittany's forehead for a moment, but even this brief intimacy threatened to be too disarming, so she pulled away.
"I should probably hit the shower. Assuming Valjean is out of there, of course."
"I doubt it, he said he was gonna exfoliate... and I'm not sure exactly what that is, but I bet it requires lube," Brittany explained. "Makes you wish you had a baggie of magical disappearing juice, doesn't it?" She gave an innocent shrug. "I'm just saying."
Santana watched her for a second, then, unable to help herself, she leaned toward her and delivered a light kiss on Brittany's shoulder, an exact match to the one she'd just received. "I love you too," she whispered. Then, collecting herself and trying to steel her emotions for the night ahead, she stood up and went to get ready.
An hour later, after a quick dinner and after making Rachel change her outfit three times before any of them would consent to be seen in public with her, it was time to go. The four of them crept down the last flight of stairs, Kurt in front. He peeked around the banister into the hallway, and then, like a soldier signaling his battalion, made a silent forward gesture with his hand. They tiptoed after him, trying not to make a sound. Santana always felt a bit ridiculous when they did this, like they were acting out a Scooby Doo scene, but it was worth it not to wake Pete up.
Tonight, however, Brittany's conscience seemed to bother her. She stopped, looking back at his sleeping form, his wide, gaping mouth emitting boisterous, almost fake-sounding snores.
"We should check and see if he took his pills," she whispered.
"Why don't we wait and do it when we get back?" Rachel suggested. Immediately, Pete's eyes popped open. Because with Rachel, even a whisper was meant to carry to the nosebleed seats.
"Aha!" he shouted, jolting his chair upright. "Just the people I wanted to see. I have matters to discuss with all of you."
"Sorry," Rachel said, off of Kurt and Santana's murderous looks.
"You know, Pete," Santana began, "We're sort of in a hurry, so maybe we could..."
"Mr. Wexler!" he interrupted her, looking at Kurt. "I wanted to let you know I'm having some trouble with my multiplication table."
"I so know what you mean," Brittany sympathized. "Once you get past three, it's all just a blur."
He continued. "So I thought perhaps I should stay in from recess, and we could work on it, just the two of us?"
Kurt looked alarmed. "No... no no. That's okay. You go ahead with the other kids. I do not need to see you alone," he said, emphasizing the last part as if for some kind of invisible jury.
Disappointed, Pete asked, "But what about your back rub?"
"My God, how was this teacher never arrested?" Kurt muttered.
Already bored with the subject, now Pete turned his attention to Santana and Rachel. "And you two!" He hooked his finger at them sternly in a come here gesture. Knowing that there was no way out of it now, they moved closer to his chair, Santana trying and failing to suppress a sigh of impatience.
"Now. Let's talk flowers." He picked up a spiral notebook from his chair's tray. The pages were yellowed and the thing looked to be about thirty years old, but it seemed he'd been making recent notes in it, because he consulted it like a checklist. "Greta tells me it's going to be a spring wedding."
"Oh, she does, does she?" Santana gave her a pointed look.
Rachel looked as if she'd been caught at something. "I didn't specify which spring," she said in her own defense.
"Now, I realize when it comes to flowers you might be tempted to go with something tame, like roses, or lilies, so as not to offend," he went on. "But this is a lesbian wedding, and my advice is to go all out. Make a splash." He leaned in, as if passing along confidential information. "Orchids. They look just like vulvas!"
Santana cringed in disgust, but Rachel seemed pleasantly interested. "Oh, that's a nice idea! But... what kind of orchid were you thinking of? Because I should tell you there are certain varieties that I have a mild allergy to, nothing serious, but I wouldn't want to be sniffling through the service..." After receiving an elbow jab from Santana that was not at all subtle and possibly painful, Rachel seemed to change her mind. "But you know what, any kind of orchid is fine."
"Is that all?" Santana asked him, impatient.
"Hardly!" he barked. "About the entertainment. Now, I'm going to take a guess and say you two haven't even begun planning for the reception yet. It's just like you to leave everything to the last minute. But, lucky for you, I'm something of an expert at these arrangements. And I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but I happen to be friends with one Mr. John Lennon." He gave them a sharp look. "And I just may be able to get him to bring his band along, if you say the word. What do you think about that?" He waited, then added helpfully, "They're called the Beatles."
"Really, the Beatles?" Rachel breathed, bringing her hand up to her heart. "I don't know what to say, Pete... that would be amazing!" She seemed genuinely excited by the prospect. Santana looked at her like she was crazy.
"And last but not least," Pete said, consulting his checklist. "Let's talk about the honeymoon."
"Oh God, let's not," Santana said, miserable. And though Brittany had of late developed something of a benign tolerance for the entire charade of this engagement, she also seemed less than thrilled by the suggestion.
Ignoring her, Pete continued. "If you'll permit me to make the reservations, I know of the perfect little inn in Vermont. They give you a discount if you help milk the cows, ha! I think Ruby would agree with me that it's worth it... we spent quite the weekend there during the Truman administration. Those were some crazy days, eh?" He looked at Brittany fondly.
"Definitely," she agreed. "But... I don't know. I don't think they would like it. I think maybe they should just skip the honeymoon. They can spend the money on a subscription to Cat Fancy magazine. And maybe some long-sleeved flannel pajamas."
"Skip the honeymoon!" he said, appalled. "Ruby, I'm surprised at you. You loved that inn!" To Santana, he added, "The beds are shaped like hearts. And you know what else? They vibrate."
"Oh, that sounds so romantic!" Rachel said.
"O-kaaaay, you know what, I can't do this anymore," Santana blurted out. "Enough is enough." She backed up and looked around, like an actress suddenly breaking character on stage. Everyone stared at her in surprise. But she couldn't help it... she felt like something had snapped. Maybe it was the impatience of the moment, maybe it was the lingering afternoon's anxiety, maybe it was the dread of the evening still in front of her, of the morbid event they were headed for. Tonight of all nights, she couldn't bear this farce for another second.
"Santana, what... what are you doing?" Rachel said quietly, looking worried.
"Pete," she said, "We need to tell you something. I'm really sorry to have to do it this way, but it's got to be done, okay? We can't keep this shit up forever." She moved closer to him again, speaking with emphasis. "My name is not Olive. It's Santana Lopez, and I am not your aunt! And this?" she said, indicating Rachel, "Is not your aunt Greta. Her name is Rachel Berry... and despite the fact that she's possibly the gayest straight person to ever walk the earth, the two of us are not together! Although... I'm starting to think maybe she wants us to be," she added, at which Rachel rolled her eyes a bit and looked uncomfortable.
Pete began to protest, but she kept going. "In fact, not only are we not together, but this is my girlfriend," she said, pulling Brittany forward. "And her name isn't Ruby, it's Brittany. She never opened a beauty parlor. She doesn't have a son! And not only was she not alive during the Truman administration, I'm pretty sure even her parents weren't alive during the Truman administration."
She looked back at Kurt, who seemed to be trying to shrink into the shadows. "Oh, and your Mr. Wexler? He's actually just a gay kid from Ohio who thinks writing a musical about his uneventful life is a capital idea. And if he ever had any desire to teach the third grade, I'm pretty sure that you've succeeded in scaring him away from it forever." She paused, out of breath. "So... that's who we really are. I just... think it's past time we let you know the truth."
But in the awful stillness that followed her outburst, she had plenty of time to reconsider the wisdom of that idea. The shocked silence from Kurt, Brittany, and Rachel was worrying, but it was the look on Pete's face that made her begin to wonder what the hell she had just done. It was a mix of bewilderment and hurt, and just a slight tinge of panic as he appeared to be trying to grasp the ramifications of what she'd told him. He looked around at all of them, mystified, and the disorientation seemed to be growing.
"Oh God..." Kurt said under his breath. "Fix it. Fix it."
"Santana, please," Brittany agreed, looking alarmed.
Shit. She knew they were right. Even if they hadn't said anything, she would have come to the same conclusion. The expression on his face was too horrible to behold. This wasn't what she'd wanted. She frantically began trying to think of a way to undo it. After a few more seconds of growing remorse, she let her breath out in an awkward burst of a laugh. "April Fool's," she said, with a tentative shrug. "I was just messing with you, Pete." Please let it work. Please let it work.
The other three attempted to help her out, chiming in after a brief pause with their own stagey laughs, Rachel's the loudest of all.
Still confused, but with his expression brightening, Pete gave her a questioning look. "April Fool's? But I thought it was still March?"
"Well, yeah... it is," she told him, amazed as always that he could keep track of the month, but not the year. "But you know me, I like to get a jump start on everyone else."
He considered this, and by pure luck, it must have rung true. Finally, to everyone's relief, he laughed, slapping his knee. "You really got me good, Aunt Olive. I tell you... for a second there, I thought I must have been going crazy!"
"Yeah, sorry," she said, still trying to make light of the whole thing. "I didn't mean to make you feel crazy. You're just as sane as any of us." In a weird way, she felt there was a grain of truth in this. "And besides that, we're..." she glanced at Rachel, wearily. "We're so glad we're your aunts. Right, Greta?"
"Absolutely," she beamed, hanging off Santana's arm. "So glad. We're so proud of you."
Santana glanced over at Brittany, who managed to look both annoyed and relieved at the same time.
Now Pete sighed and leaned back in his chair, basking in the glow of their approval. "Aunt Olive, you always did enjoy yourself a good prank," he reminisced. "Do you recall the fellow who worked at the ice cream parlor, when I was about ten or so? The blockhead used to pat Aunt Greta on the fanny, even though she asked him not to, every time. So one day you'd had enough and you went and told his gal that you were carrying his baby... and so she went in there and caused such a ruckus that she got him fired. Ha!" He considered, admiring. "I suppose some would say that was more than a prank, though."
Santana shifted her gaze to the side a bit, as if believing herself judged for this revenge she hadn't committed. Feeling oddly defensive, she said, "Well, it sounds like he deserved it."
"We used to go to that ice cream parlor every night during the summer, remember? It was down on the town square. You'd get me a peanut butter milkshake, and we'd go and sit on the benches, right near the water. Aunt Greta would sing songs from Show Boat, and we'd watch the barges and the boats on the lake, and you'd complain about the mosquitoes. There was no place I'd rather be." His gaze was faraway, as thought he'd forgotten they were even there.
All three of them seemed moved by his obvious joy in the memory. Rachel gave him a wistful smile. "It's amazing that you can remember all that."
"How could I forget?" he asked. "We always had the place to ourselves, because..." A shadow crossed his face. "Because no one wanted to sit near us. You thought I didn't notice that, didn't you? But I did. I noticed all kinds of things. I knew what they said about you. I knew how they treated you both. And yet... you never seemed to let it get to you. Or maybe you just didn't let me see it, I don't know. But I've always wondered... What on earth made you stay in that town? How could you have been so brave?" He looked at them now, coming back to his surroundings.
But of course, they had no answer to these questions. After a few seconds, he seemed to realize this. "Ah, well," he said with a tone of finality. "Things are different now. That's all that matters. The wedding will make it all worth it."
Hesitantly, not wanting to intrude on his nostalgia, Brittany stepped forward and popped open the Saturday slot on his pill tray. She shook them out and tried to hand them to him. "It's time to take these now, okay?"
He glanced at them made a dismissive gesture. "Poison."
"Pete, come on," she pleaded. "You remember what the doctor said. I was there, I heard her. You have to take them every day." She thought for a second, then said, "If not for me, then do it for Herman."
"I'll tell you what," he said, bargaining with her. "Bring me a milkshake, and I'll take them. Peanut butter!" He smiled fondly, peering into the past again. "I've got a craving."
Brittany sighed. "Fine. But you have to take them as soon as we get back." She replaced the pills in the slot and snapped it shut. Before she moved away, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips in a gallant gesture.
"You're too good to me, Ruby."
She smiled. "I know."
"That reminds me... I've got something for you, around here somewhere." He readjusted his glasses on his nose, and patted his bathrobe pockets, squinting around him. "I hope it's not under the chair."
Checking her watch, Rachel said, "You know what, Pete, we really have to go. Maybe we can look for it later?"
"Go, go then," he said, waving his hand at them. "Always in a rush."
He settled back into the chair and seemed ready to drift off to sleep again, so they left him to his memories. As they reached the front door, though, he couldn't resist calling out, "Give that honeymoon some thought! It's not every day you get to use a vibrating bed!"
Santana shuddered, glad to be out of the building. But her relief was short-lived, because now they had to face what was likely to be a very depressing event, and they all grew more serious as they walked toward the subway station.
In Manhattan again, outside the main NYADA building, Rachel stopped to wait for Jesse, who was running late but was supposed to meet her there. The rest of them continued on in. Santana paused briefly just outside the banquet room, bracing herself. She had a strong urge to take Brittany's hand, but the very fact that the urge was so strong made her, perversely, force herself to ignore it.
The two of them stepped into the room just behind Kurt, who promptly left them in order to search for Eli. Santana looked around, dreading what she would see. But it wasn't quite what she'd feared, to her relief. Though the room certainly lacked the festive appearance it normally wore for dances, she didn't see the gloomy darkness and shrines made of flowers and teddy bears she'd been halfway expecting. There were no groups of people with arms slung around each other, candles aloft, tears streaming down their faces - at least not yet, thank God. It seemed to be a sober, restrained affair, by NYADA standards. People were dressed as if for a funeral, and they stood in small clusters, talking quietly, sipping from drinks. Santana saw quite a few familiar faces, but there were plenty of unfamiliar ones too. Word must have gotten out, because many of these students and teachers seemed to be from other schools.
"Oh praise the baby Jesus, there's a bar," she muttered, scanning the room. In the dim light, the bottles of alcohol glowed enticingly. She felt an immediate desire to head toward them. But Brittany's attention seemed to be caught by something on the other side of the room.
"I think I see Allison."
Santana followed her gaze. "Well, she ought to be right in her element. Everyone's serious and miserable... this must be like Christmas for her."
Brittany smiled a little. "She's not that bad." For the past few weeks she'd been giving Allison secret dance lessons, and seemed to have developed a mild fondness for her. "She's mostly just awkward. And it's not her fault she doesn't have a sense of humor, because that's genetic." She lowered her voice. "Did you know she's related to the royal family?"
Giving her a skeptical look, Santana said, "Did she tell you that?"
"No. But she didn't have to, it's obvious. You can tell by the way she always walks like she hasn't pooped in a week."
"Okay, well... while you catch up with the princess, I think I'm gonna hit the bar. You want anything to drink?"
She considered, but shook her head. "Not yet." She looked at Santana closely and started to say something else, but then pressed her lips together, stopping herself. Maybe she was remembering her request from earlier, the one about not talking. "Meet you back here?"
"Yeah," she agreed. She watched Brittany walk away, then turned and headed toward the bar, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who might want to stop and chat. Not that she had a reputation for being particularly approachable, but there were at least a few people who she was on good terms with. Tonight, though, she didn't feel like mingling with any of them. Not until she'd had at least one drink.
There was a man in an expensive-looking suit ahead of her at the bar, and she waited until he'd gotten his martini and moved off. He let his eyes rove over her appreciatively as he passed, the kind of attention that both irritated and flattered her in equal measures. She knew the kind of power she could wield. It was nice to be reminded that she still had it, even if she never used it again. But at the moment, there was only one thing she was after, and it didn't require sex appeal.
She stepped up to the bar, having already decided she wanted something simple and strong. "Gin and tonic. Light on the tonic." She thought for a second. "Actually, you know what, don't even bother with the tonic."
The young bartender started to fill her order, then seemed to realize he was forgetting a step. "Can I see some ID?"
She stared him down. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Taken aback, he said, "Um, no? I can't serve alcohol to minors."
And even though she had fake ID with her, and it would have been no real trouble to pull it out, she didn't do it. Confronting him came more naturally. "Ohh, I see. That's interesting. Because... correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't all the money taken in at this gruesome little sock hop tonight go straight to charity... including to the family of that poor girl who offed herself?"
The bartender was confused. "Of course. That's why they're charging."
"And doesn't that mean that by denying a paying customer the opportunity to contribute to such a worthy cause, you're sort of putting yourself in the role of... charity cockblock?"
He didn't seem to be following her reasoning, but he looked nervous all the same.
As if she'd just thought of the possibility, she said, "Hold up... did somebody send you here?" She leaned forward and peered at him, suspicious. "Unbelievable. Who was it? The Westboro Baptist Church, maybe? Those uptight sadistic brood sows from the Million Moms group? Because I have to tell you, from where I'm standing, this looks like a major homophobic conspiracy."
"No one sent me," the guy said, alarmed. "I work for the caterer!"
Ignoring this, she went on. "You know what, I bet the media would be interested in this. I mean, one of New York City's top theater schools, attempting to sabotage gay-youth activism and fundraising? Sounds like a pretty big story to me." She pulled out her phone. "In fact, now that I think of it, I just might have the number for GLAAD right here handy... Maybe I should just give them a little ringy-ding, have them send someone down to investigate..."
"All right," he said hastily, getting a bottle from the behind the bar. "Look, here's your gin. Just... don't call GLAAD."
Smugly, she put her phone away and watched as he slid the glass over to her. "Can I get a lime?"
Restraining himself from saying anything else, he plunked a wedge of lime into the liquor.
"Thank you," she said, dimples flashing. After a few seconds of inner debate, she laid down a fifty-dollar bill. "And keep the change."
There. She'd done her part for the cause, she'd given her donation. Now no one could accuse her of being heartless. Though, in truth, it was her precisely her heart that was threatening to give her all too much trouble, if she would let it. Which she wouldn't.
She moved away from the bar a little, then downed half the drink in one go, closing her eyes for a second to relish the soothing burn of it. When she opened them, Kurt was standing there. He raised his eyebrows a bit.
"What?" She was so not in the mood for him right now. Instead of making her feel better, like it normally would have, the little tiff with the bartender had only made her more edgy.
"I couldn't help overhearing," he said. "GLAAD? Really?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
He seemed to get a certain ironic enjoyment from what he'd witnessed, but gradually his expression grew more serious, like he had something he wanted to get off his chest. "Santana..." he began.
She held up a hand, interrupting him. "Okay, let me just stop you right there, queer-Jiminy Cricket. Because whatever little pep talk you feel like you need to deliver unto me, I don't need to hear it. So why don't you just go ahead and climb down off your glittery, sequined soapbox... and in return, I will try my hardest not to bring up the fact that those shoes look like something a gay clown would wear to a tiger birthday at Siegfried and Roy's."
He sighed, already weary. "Believe me, a pep talk is the last thing I would ever attempt to give you, all right? It would be like... trying to convince a crocodile to join PETA." She rolled her eyes, but he continued. "All I wanted to say is that... I get it. I know how hard it is to be here. You know, this isn't exactly my idea of an enjoyable evening, either. Personally, I'd rather suffer through Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties with Brittany again than be here."
"Then why the hell are we here, Kurt?" She tried to keep her voice at a reasonable pitch, though it wasn't easy. "This whole thing is bullshit, and we both know it. None of these people knew that girl. They don't know what she went through... they don't know what she was thinking when she..." She stopped, unable to go further. "It's bullshit."
"We're here because it's what people do. We congregate... we give money... we try to figure out why it happened and how we can keep it from happening again. It's only natural. And it makes people feel better."
"Yeah, well maybe they shouldn't feel better," she said, savagely. "Did you ever think of that?" After taking another swig from her drink, she added, "And by the way, I don't think it's natural. I think it's sick and twisted." He watched her, not replying, and she continued. "That guy in front of me, at the bar? I heard him ask for a receipt. You know why? So he can deduct this from his taxes. That's what that girl is to him. A charitable tax deduction."
When Kurt finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice. "These people aren't who you're really angry at, Santana."
She started to ask him who she was angry at, then, since he apparently knew everything. Because at the moment, she wasn't entirely sure she had the answer. But before she could manage to get the words out, a voice cut into their conversation, the question like some returning nightmare from the past.
"Are you the lesbian cheerleader?"
Dismayed, she turned around. There were two girls standing there, most likely high school students judging by their uniform jackets and plaid skirts, and young ones at that - no more than fifteen or sixteen. They were looking at her with a mix of curiosity and awe.
"I'm... I'm sorry, what?" She thought she must have heard them wrong. Kurt seemed stunned as well.
One of them, a disturbingly pale girl with short, dyed-black hair, nudged the other one. "It's definitely her," she muttered.
"We go to school in New Jersey, but we saw that political ad online last year," the other girl said. "Everyone was talking about it. It was so terrible."
"Yeah, we donated money for you," the pale one said, proudly. "For your legal fund. Did you ever get it?"
Still shocked, Santana opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, anything. But all that came out was a bewildered, "I... I don't know what..."
But in their impatience to impress someone they obviously considered to be a celebrity, the girls didn't seem to notice her discomfort. One cut in with, "Are you gonna give a speech tonight? Because, my uncle works at this school. I can tell him, if you want to."
The other one approved this idea, enthusiastic. "Yeah, you totally should! I mean, who knows about this stuff better than you do? I bet you would make everybody cry."
All of a sudden Santana began to feel as if she wasn't getting quite enough air. And was the room heating up? She realized now that her instincts had been right to begin with; she shouldn't have come. Because what these girls wanted from her was impossible. Apparently, even talking to them, even answering their simple questions was impossible. She couldn't even seem to explain to them who she was... but then again, what was the point of explaining it when they already knew? She had the strangest sense of nakedness, like she'd forgotten to wear some essential item of clothing. Did everyone here know about the ad? Had they all known all along? Was that why Polly had given her that weird look just before she delivered her news? She clutched the glass of gin so hard it was a miracle it didn't shatter in her hand.
The girls continued to wait for a response, but still, nothing came to her.
Finally, as if he couldn't endure her paralysis any longer, Kurt stepped in, clearing his throat in a stagey way. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, girls, but... I'm afraid this is a case of mistaken identity. As it happens, this lovely woman you see before you is none other than... well, my wife."
Santana slowly turned her head to stare at him, as if in a dream. Her eyes widened in bafflement as he stepped closer and linked his arm around her waist, awkwardly.
The girls watched them, surprised and skeptical. "You're married? To him?"
Pressing her lips together and then swallowing hard, trying to find her voice again, Santana said, "Mm-hm." Now the air seemed to be returning to the room, and she took a grateful intake of breath. "One year this May," she told them, getting into her stride. After all, she was already fake-engaged to Rachel. Might as well be fake-married to Kurt. If she could just get fake-knocked up by Puckerman, her imaginary life would be complete in its horror.
"We tied the knot before school was out," Kurt told the dumbstruck girls, as if confiding to them. "We couldn't even wait for graduation."
"That's right," Santana added. "Just... couldn't keep our hands off each other." To emphasize this, she grabbed his ass.
"Oooh!" Kurt jumped, startled, then chuckled nervously. "Isn't that the truth? Like Edward and Bella. Jack and Rose. Ross and Rachel. It was a heterosexual love story for the ages."
"It so was," Santana said, nodding. "I can not even count the number of times we got busted at school for PDA. But I mean, can you blame me? Look at that sexy mug."
The girls glanced at each other, and without even knowing them, Santana could tell the unspoken thought they were communicating to one another was Gross.
The pale one, who seemed to be a bit more assertive than her friend, said, "That is so weird. Because you look just like that girl from the ad."
"Well, they say everyone has a twin, right?" Santana shrugged. "I guess mine is a lesbian cheerleader. But as for me... As you can see, I'm straight as a post. We both are."
"Yes, just your average, happy hetero couple. That's us," Kurt said, with strained pleasantness. They leaned their heads slightly toward each other, like the hosts of a fifties cocktail party welcoming guests at the door, still watching the girls with fake smiles.
To Santana's relief, the two of them finally seemed to accept the story. Either that, or they just couldn't bear to witness any more of the weirdness. One drew her hand through the other's arm, and they turned to go. "Sorry to bother you, then," she said. They seemed disappointed.
After they'd watched the girls walk off, Kurt detached his arm from Santana's waist, and they both took a step away from each other, uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact.
"Thanks," Santana muttered with reluctance, looking everywhere but at his face. As ridiculous as it was, she did feel truly grateful.
"Of course," he replied. "Anytime." After a stilted pause in which they both looked as if they'd like to take an immediate shower, Kurt suggested, "How about we never speak of this again?"
"Could not agree more," she said, almost before he'd finished. They moved off in separate directions.
Blundering past a group of people she didn't recognize, Santana kept her head down and tried not to look at anyone. She wanted to make sure she put plenty of distance between herself and the two girls. As innocent as their questions had been, they somehow felt like a violation. She hadn't come here tonight expecting to be recognized by strangers. But in addition to that, she now had a strong sense of guilt, a conviction that she should have handled it differently. They hadn't meant any harm. She suddenly understood, from the way they'd glanced at each other, the subtle gestures of body language, that the two of them were a couple. They were girlfriends... just two scared high school kids, maybe not even out of the closet yet. And they'd needed something from her that she wasn't capable of giving them. She just wasn't that person. Brittany could be that person, maybe. But not her.
She found herself in a corner of the room, and glancing up, discovered that by chance she'd now placed herself right in front of precisely the kind of thing she'd dreaded to find here tonight. It was a shrine of sorts, the type that sprang up in the wake of any young, tragic death. The fact that it was relatively classy - no candles or flowers - didn't make the series of photographs propped up on the easel any easier to look at. In some ways, the lack of any sentimental clutter made them stand out with even more chilling starkness.
Though of course there wasn't anything particularly chilling about the pictures, on their own. She was just a girl. Dark-complexioned, maybe Hispanic, Santana noticed with an uncomfortable jolt. Or maybe Native American, with her full cheeks and piercing black eyes. It made no difference. She was just a teenage girl. In one picture she posed above a birthday cake with a pink candy 16 in the middle of it, in another she smiled hugely amidst bales of hay in the back of a pickup truck with two younger boys, probably her brothers. Yet another showed her standing with a group of teens outside a small, picturesque church, her smile this time just a bit strained, maybe; a hint of worry in her expression.
In the ones that marked her out as a NYADA hopeful, she posed on stage, and even with her limited musical theater knowledge, Santana could recognize the high school casts of both Oklahoma! and Grease. And there, down in the corner, the one she just couldn't seem to get away from... the ubiquitous West Side Story. The girl in the pictures, it was clear, had played Anita. Of course, Santana thought, not surprised at all by this disturbing parallel. Of course she did. Feeling sick, she tried to force herself to stop looking at it. Why the hell was she still looking at it?
Somebody touched her arm, and startled, she jerked away. The now-empty glass slid out of her hand and hit the floor with a muffled clink, not shattering, but breaking into two jagged, perfect halves.
"Sorry," Brittany said. "I thought you saw me coming."
"No... but that's okay." She tried to sound normal, watching as Brittany bent to pick up the remains of the glass. "Be careful," she added. If I have to see your blood right now so help me God I will lose it.
"I got it," she said, cupping the pieces gently in her palm as she straightened up. She looked around for somewhere to put them, and decided, with her own inscrutable Brittany-logic, that hiding them at the base of a decorative potted tree was the best option. Even in her current mood, Santana couldn't resist smiling a little.
"There," Brittany said, coming back over and brushing her hands off. Now she noticed the easel with the pictures on it, and her movements slowed. "Is that her?" she asked quietly.
Santana nodded. "Yeah, I guess so." Attempting to sound like her usual self, she added, "Or who knows, maybe they just went shopping for pictures at Suicides-R-Us and found some other random girl. It's not like anyone here would know the difference."
Brittany turned to face her now, giving her a searching look. There was no fooling her. After a few seconds of concerned silence, she asked, "Santana... do you want to get out of here?"
Meeting her eyes, Santana considered playing it cool, saying she was fine. But instead she told her the truth. "More than anything in the world."
With a faint understanding smile, Brittany hesitated, then went with her impulse and moved in for a kiss. Santana didn't resist it. Closing her eyes for just a second, she felt a brief, welcome sense of peace and stillness, the entire room falling away for the short time that their lips touched. But of course it couldn't last. Because when Brittany stepped back, the first thing she noticed was the two girls from before, watching them from the opposite corner of the room, whispering to each other.
"Crap," Santana said under her breath, turning away.
"What's wrong?"
"It's nothing." She sighed. "Only, I think I just got caught cheating on my husband." She glanced at them again, guilty, but then took Brittany's arm. "Come on, let's go."
Puzzled, Brittany nevertheless allowed herself to be guided toward the exit.
On the train again for the ride home, leaning against her shoulder, Santana made a strange request - she asked Brittany to keep talking.
"What do you want me to talk about?"
"I don't care. Anything. Just keep saying words."
So, determined to oblige, Brittany spent the ride home making up delightfully odd stories about the strangers who shared the car with them. She told her about the group of young Hispanic guys near the door, how they were headed to their top secret Gecko Fight Club, where they pitted their geckos against each other in do or die combat, only they couldn't let anybody know about it because the first rule of Gecko Fight Club was that you never talk about Gecko Fight Club. She told her about the middle-aged woman with dyed red hair in the shabby fur coat, who, believe it or not, was heir to a Kleenex fortune, but who refused to touch the money on principle, because her religious beliefs instructed her that snot was sacred and should only come out of the nose when it was good and ready to. She described how the Persian man in the corner with the paper actually couldn't read, but he was addicted to newspapers because he found the smell of ink arousing.
Santana nuzzled against her shoulder, letting the meaningless words wash over her, smiling and occasionally chiming in with her own detail, like how the Persian guy's newspaper also came in handy for hiding his ink-induced boner. By the time they were back on their own street, walking down the sidewalk toward home, she felt a little better. But she still couldn't wait to be in bed, in Brittany's arms, the entire day over and done with.
"We just need to stop at the diner," Brittany said as they neared it.
"Are you hungry again? I'm starting to think I've gotten you pregnant."
She smiled. "It's not for me, it's for Pete. We have to get him a milkshake."
Santana tried to talk her out of it. "He won't even remember he asked for that, trust me."
"I promised, though."
So of course, they stopped. The place was just closing up when they got there, the front door already locked and only the lights in the back still glowing dimly through the glass. But after knocking for a few minutes, they were able to get the owner's attention. When he saw who it was, he let them in and agreed to make the milkshake. No one could deny Brittany much of anything, it seemed.
It was a chilly night, despite the warmth of the day, and on the short walk down the street to their building, Brittany kept switching the milkshake from one hand to the other, alternately thawing and freezing the fingers of each. Santana offered to carry it, but was refused. So she held the front door open for her, trying to get in at least a few points for gallantry.
Pete was asleep again, and Brittany went toward him, whispering excitedly, "Pete, look! I brought you something." She set the styrofoam cup down on the tray, then fished his pills out again. "You have to take these now, remember? You said you would. Come on, quit faking."
At the bottom of the stairs, Santana paused to wait. She took out her phone in order to check her messages. Though she'd had it turned off since the library this afternoon, there were no voicemails. There were, however, two texts, the first of which read, "When one decides to leave an event early it is polite to inform one's friends!" She shook her head at it. Only Rachel could make a text sound like something out of a Miss Manners handbook. The second, more worried-sounding one had been sent ten minutes after the first, and read simply, "Santana?"
"Santana."
Now she looked up, surprised at the tone of fear in Brittany's voice, a tone she didn't think she'd ever heard before.
"What is it?" She moved toward her, looking first at the expression on her face, then following her gaze down to Pete.
"He's not waking up. Why isn't he waking up?"
Santana stared at his bony, grizzled old man's form, looking for the telltale rise and fall of his chest, listening for the obnoxious snores. There was nothing. He wasn't breathing.
Oh shit. Oh no. Not tonight... you cantankerous old son of a bitch. Hesitant, she reached out and touched his wrist. As she'd expected, it was cold.
She drew her hand back, then slowly turned to look at Brittany, not knowing what she could possibly say.
But she didn't need to say anything. Brittany already knew. It was clear from the look on her face. It was a look Santana had never seen there before, and never wanted to see again. All the misery she'd been feeling on her own behalf since this afternoon was instantly forgotten. All she wanted in the world was to make that look go away.
Stepping toward her, she murmured, "Baby," and pulled her into her arms. "I'm so sorry." She turned her body, so that over her shoulder Brittany was now facing the door instead of Pete's chair. She could feel her beginning to tremble, could feel the emotion working its way up from her calm, placid depths, and she held onto her as tightly as she could. To Santana's surprise, but also to her relief, her own eyes were dry.
Balancing the laden tray as well as she could (which she thought was pretty well considering she'd never done this before), Santana edged carefully through the kitchen doorway and continued on into the living room, taking slow, even steps. She lowered the tray onto the coffee table, saying in what she hoped was an enticing way, "Look what I've got here..." Straightening up, she regarded the three sets of red-rimmed, swollen, sullen eyes that stared back at her from the couch. "Grilled cheese," she added, in case they couldn't tell.
When there was still no response, she separated the plates and put one on each of their laps. "Two with actual cheese, made from cow's milk." These went to Brittany and Kurt. "And one with... whatever the hell it is that your cheese is made from," she said to Rachel, giving her the third plate. Then she sat down in the arm chair and took the fourth plate for herself. "And one for me."
Still no one moved. Rachel raised her head from the pillow in Kurt's lap just far enough to give the plate a cursory glance, then she flopped back down. Brittany stared at the sandwich, but as if she wasn't really seeing it. Kurt kept his blank, melancholy gaze fixed on the front window, where sheets of rain were pouring down in the dark gray afternoon light. None of them had budged from the living room all day. In fact, the four of them had even slept in here last night, after the body had been carried out and the ambulance drove away, slowly, lights off. For some reason, it had seemed like going to bed would make it feel too much like just another night.
Santana took a bite of her sandwich, as if to tempt them, or maybe just give them an example, a reminder of how this was done. But nobody paid attention.
"Guys, you have to eat something," she pleaded. And the words, even in her own ears, sounded bizarre. Because this role was one she had never yet found herself in, not once in her life. Taking care of people? No thank you. It didn't come naturally to her, and it had never occurred to her to try it. Even when her parents had wrangled her into volunteering as a candy striper at the hospital, she'd only gone twice - and both times she'd spent most of the shift doing her hair and makeup in the break room. But in some strange way, Pete's death had thrust her into the position of caretaker, and she'd latched onto it with eagerness. Because it was at least a distraction from the things she'd been thinking about last night. Or not a distraction, necessarily, but like changing the channel from one shitty show to another one that was shitty in a different way. They both sucked, but this one at least wasn't so personal. Because despite the shock of the death, Pete had been nowhere present in the strange, disquieting, yet somehow familiar dream that had come as soon as she'd tried to sleep.
In it, she'd been at home in Lima, sprawled out on her bed, doing homework with the TV droning on in the background, when suddenly the campaign ad came on. She'd immediately reached for the remote control to change the channel, but the button wouldn't work. And then the volume on the TV began to increase, on its own, growing to deafening proportions. It seemed as thought not just everyone in the house, but everyone in the neighborhood must be able to hear it. Finally, the ad ended, but then it began again. Frantic, she'd climbed off the bed and moved toward the television, which seemed to keep getting farther and farther away, despite the fact that the volume was still increasing. But when she'd reached it and jabbed the power button, still nothing happened. She couldn't make it stop. Desperate by that point to get away from it, she'd headed toward her bathroom, and had just made it inside and pushed the door closed behind her when a peal of thunder woke her up.
Since Kurt had also been jarred out of sleep (she suspected he was afraid of storms but just wouldn't admit it), they'd stayed awake the remaining hour until dawn watching Access Hollywood together, even though they were too despondent to make snide remarks about the celebrities like usual. Eventually, Brittany and Rachel had woken up as well, and their day of moping had commenced. Cheering them all up had been Santana's sole focus since this morning, and the fact that she hadn't had much luck yet hadn't diminished her efforts.
"Do you want me to cut the crusts off, Britt?" she asked now, willing to do anything.
"I'm not really hungry," Brittany said, apologetic. "You did such a good job though. You hardly burned it at all."
Santana sighed. "Look, I know we're all sad, okay? I mean, I'm sad too," she said, as though she needed to defend herself. "But it's not like this is some huge shock, right? He was never healthy… and he was so, so old."
Nobody replied, and she had to at least give Kurt and Rachel credit for not indulging their drama queen tendencies. Since they'd learned of the death last night, there'd been remarkably little in the way of histrionics from either of them. Like Brittany, they were mostly just quiet and depressed.
This mood in Brittany was so unusual, though, and so heartbreaking to see. The death seemed to have hit her harder than any of them, despite the fact that she'd only known Pete for a few months. Deep down, Santana suspected the reason for this was simple - she was a better person than they were. She was less self-centered, and her heart was bigger. But no matter how natural the sadness was, Santana couldn't stop herself from trying to take care of her, to get her feeling like her usual self again.
The weather certainly wasn't helping, though. It had been raining non-stop since early this morning, and it was expected to continue for the next few days, right through her spring break, as well as Kurt and Rachel's. The light inside the apartment was dim and watery. She kept turning on lamps in an attempt to dispel the gloom, but every time she came back into the living room, she found that they'd been switched off again, as if the three of them preferred to sit and brood in the dark.
Determined not to give up, she tried to think of something else that would stir them out of their somber numbness. "Kurt, do you want to help us pick out what we're wearing to the funeral? Because I don't know about these two, but I could probably use some advice." Morbid, perhaps, but surely he would brighten up at any excuse for a fashion show.
Not today, though. "Maybe later," he said, idly tearing the crust off his grilled cheese. "I doubt it'll be much of a funeral anyway. I heard the landlord say Pete doesn't have any family. He'd already made the arrangements for himself, before he died, so there'll be some kind of service… but we'll probably be the only ones there."
These words seemed to make Rachel and Brittany feel even worse. Nice going, Santana thought. She wasn't sure whether she was annoyed at herself or Kurt.
"Okay, well…" she tried again. "We should at least figure out which song we're gonna sing at the service, maybe start practicing?" She looked at Rachel, intending this one for her.
But instead of jumping at the idea, her eyes filled with tears. "We should have been singing at a wedding, not a funeral."
Restraining a massive eye roll, Santana didn't bother to point out that they were never going to have sung at a wedding, because there was never going to be a wedding. And furthermore, who sang at their own wedding, anyway? The fact that she managed not to say any of this felt like a personal victory.
Setting her plate aside on the coffee table, she moved across to the couch and perched on the arm of it, next to Brittany. With a gentle motion, she smoothed the hair back from her brow; it was tangled and obviously hadn't been brushed today. Santana made a mental note to brush it herself. At least that would be one thing she could do, however minor. For now, though, she just sat there a minute, letting Brittany lean her head against her lap. "Isn't there anything I can do to make you feel better?" she asked her helplessly. "I will do anything at all. Just name it, Britt."
Brittany was quiet for a while. She seemed to be genuinely trying to come up with something. Santana had never seen her look so sad, not in all the years they'd known each other. "I can't think of anything," she finally said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Santana leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I just wish I could make it better."
"Me too," she agreed softly.
Over the course of the rest of the day, Santana stayed by her, rarely leaving her side. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She brushed out her hair with slow, loving strokes, drawing out the process, turning it into something almost sensual while Brittany's eyes fell closed and her body relaxed. In an attempt to perk her up, she put in one upbeat, ridiculous movie after another; Bring it On (from her own collection), Some Like it Hot (from Kurt's), The Muppets Take Manhattan (appearing in both Brittany and Rachel's collections, oddly enough.) She wrote a letter to Lord Tubbington, something Brittany had been trying to get her to do for weeks, but which she'd kept putting off. When Brittany read it over before sending it, there was the faint ghost of a smile on her lips, which felt like a small measure of success.
Rachel finally stirred herself out of her gloomy apathy enough to help Santana make cupcakes, which the four of them ate for dinner - because who was going to stop them? They stayed late again in the living room, but tonight, eventually, they all went to their own rooms to sleep. In bed, Santana gave Brittany a soft, drawn-out, lingering kiss, a kiss that asked a question and reassured her that no matter what the answer was, it would be the right one. Brittany responded by pressing her body against her, as close as she could get, and nestling down beneath her chin. Content with this answer, and deep down maybe a little relieved by it, she wrapped her arms around Brittany's back and held her while she drifted off to sleep, feeling the warm puffs of her breath against her own neck, trying to let their rhythm lull her.
Once she was asleep, even in the depths of unconsciousness, she somehow wasn't surprised to find the dream from last night returning, the setup the same as before. She'd had a feeling, when the thunder woke her up, that it wasn't finished, that there was still some important thing left to do. And now, it seemed, she was being given a second chance. Once again, her homework was interrupted by the loud, blaring campaign ad, and once again, she found she couldn't lower the volume no matter how hard she tried. Heart hammering with a mixture of shame and mortification, she sought escape in her bathroom once again, shutting the door firmly behind her. She could still hear the television, but it was muffled now.
And now the dream continued on past the point at which she'd previously woken up, and she realized there was something strange resting on her bathroom sink. She stepped closer, puzzled. At first she couldn't understand what it was, though she knew the objects were vaguely familiar. Two identical, curving shards of glass, lying there beside her toothpaste, like someone had placed them there for some specific reason. After a minute she recognized them – they were the halves of the glass she'd broken at the vigil, or the benefit, or whatever the hell it was. But why were they here? What was she supposed to do with them?
Slowly, she reached her hand out to touch one of the pieces, running her fingers over the cold smoothness of the glass. She started to trace one finger over the jagged edge, but the noise from her bedroom now changed in a subtle way, the campaign ad switching to a different, more troubling sound. Someone was crying. She turned back toward the door, trying to open it... but then she was awake again, and the crying wasn't in the dream after all. It was Brittany.
"Shh..." She pulled her close again, rubbing circles on her back. But Brittany hardly even seemed to be awake. Maybe she'd been dreaming too. Finding Pete had been such a shock for her, and Santana knew for a fact that she'd never been close to anybody who'd died before. All of her grandparents were still alive. She'd never even had to go through losing a pet, thank God. This was something totally new in her life.
The need to soothe Brittany back into sleep kept her from thinking about her own dream, or what it could mean. But even without knowing what it meant, or why it left her with such an unsettling feeling of dread, she knew she wasn't going to let it be repeated... not tonight, anyway. She lay there for the next few hours with her eyes open, refusing to give in to sleep, watching the occasional flicker of lightning illuminate the walls of the room.
When the first pale smudge of gray appeared in the rain-darkened sky, she edged herself out of bed, careful not to wake Brittany. Exhausted, but grateful that the night was over, she wandered through the apartment, looking for something to distract her. For a while she watched TV, but the rain drumming on the roof toyed with her nerves, and she felt restless. Wanting to actually do something, she went into the kitchen, wondering if she should attempt to cook again. Her previous efforts had never been very successful; last time she'd made pancakes, Brittany had said they "tasted like anger." But then she noticed that even though the four of them hadn't eaten much yesterday, there were still dirty dishes piled up, so she settled on this chore for lack of any better alternative.
The hot water was soothing, and she let her hands soak in it, taking her time, occasionally staring out the window over the sink, looking through the curtain of rain. In the building across the alley, one floor down from theirs, an eight or nine-year-old boy was practicing early-morning karate moves in front of the TV, sending a series of stuffed animals flying across the room, then retrieving them only to wallop them again. Santana felt a stab of envy, wishing she could trade places with him. Sometimes it made you feel better to kick the shit out of something.
She heard someone enter the room behind her, and before she could turn, a warm body pressed up against her and a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind. She took a deep breath and relaxed into the embrace, the familiar scent enfolding her.
Brittany spoke against her ear. "You're up so early."
"Yeah, I know," she agreed. "I remembered these dishes were still in here from last night, and I just couldn't stand it."
Now Brittany released her and moved to the side, giving her a strange look, clearly not buying it. Which was no surprise, considering that it was a nonsensical thing to say.
"How are you feeling?" Santana asked, to change the subject. "I think you were having bad dreams last night."
Brittany leaned against the counter, considering. "I'm still sad, but I think I'm okay. I just wish..."
Santana waited for to finish, but she'd let the thought trail off. "What?"
"I wish I'd made him take those pills before we left the other night."
"No, Brittany." Santana shook her head, adamant. "Don't do that. Look at me." She pulled her hands out of the water and rested them on Brittany's crossed arms, not caring that she was getting her pajamas wet. "It wouldn't have made any difference. I think it must have happened right after we left. And you know what? I think the crazy old bastard sort of knew. That's why he'd been harassing us with all that wedding stuff lately. He was tying up loose ends. You can not blame yourself for this. Okay?"
Brittany looked back at her, wanting to believe it. After a few seconds, she nodded, accepting it, or at least pretending to. "Okay. But I wish I'd stuck around to get whatever it was he wanted to give me. I guess I'll never know, now."
That was probably true, but Santana tried to make light of it. "I'm sure whatever it was, it wouldn't have made any sense, anyway." She returned to the dishes.
Now Brittany hopped up onto the counter in one easy bounce and leaned her head back against the cabinets, watching her, obviously still in a thoughtful mood. After a minute she said in a hesitant way, "Santana, can I ask you something?"
Though the words made her nervous, the only response possible to make to this was, "Of course."
"What do you think happens to people when they die? I mean, really?"
Damn it... of all the things she didn't want to think about on this particular morning, that had to be near the top of the list. She tried to be vague, hoping maybe it would spur her to share her own thoughts. "I don't know, Britt."
She was persistent, though. "I know, but... I'm just asking you what you think."
She sighed, staring into the dishwater. For a minute she still didn't answer. "I guess... I don't think that anything happens. I think once your brain shuts down, that's it. Lights out. Game over."
Brittany pondered this idea. "Like going to sleep?"
"Sort of," she said. But then honesty compelled her to add, "Only you don't dream, and you don't ever wake up."
Still watching her with an expression that was part thoughtful and part pitying, Brittany eventually said in a quiet voice, "That's really sad."
Shrugging, Santana said, "I don't know, maybe. But to be honest, I've never been all that crazy about the idea of existing forever. I mean, we're not vampires. As awesome as I am, I think I would start to get sick of myself after a million years or so."
Brittany seemed to be giving this some serious consideration. "It makes me feel dizzy to think about forever. Like when you watch the toilet water swirl around after you flush. But... I know one thing for sure. I would never get sick of you. Not even after a million years."
Santana smiled a little, touched. "You don't think so?"
"Nope." Then, in a lighter tone, "Maybe after five million." She smirked, and Santana swiped her playfully on the knee with the dish rag.
Then they both paused, listening. There was what sounded like a knock on the front door, but it couldn't be later than 8:00 am. Who on earth would visit them this early?
The knock came again, and Brittany hopped down off the counter. Santana followed after her, intrigued, drying her hands on a towel.
Brittany unlocked and then opened the door, revealing two men - one their rarely-seen landlord, the other a harried-looking middle-aged man in a cheap suit, clutching a briefcase.
"What's going on?" Rachel asked, just emerging from the hallway and blinking as though she'd only woken up seconds ago. She was wearing fuzzy pink pajamas and her hair hung in two braids. Kurt was behind her in his velvet bathrobe, looking like a young, gay Hugh Hefner. Suppressing a sigh at the ridiculous sight of them, Santana thought with brief longing of the studio apartment she and Brittany had nearly ended up in, alone.
The landlord stepped aside and looked at the other man, waiting for him to speak. He seemed impatient and none too happy about being up so early.
"Good morning, folks." The man in the suit opened his briefcase, shuffled through a few papers, and then squinted at one. "I'm looking for someone named Olive, and someone else named...?" He peered closer, then showed the paper to the landlord. "Can you make out that other word?"
The landlord adjusted his glasses, but shook his head, stumped. "Looks like it starts with a G."
"Greta," Santana and Rachel both said at the same time.
The men looked up, both relieved. "That's it," said the one in the suit. "Do you know these women?"
They looked at each other, unsure how to answer. Santana shook her head just the slightest bit, trying to signal to her that it would be best to say no.
Rachel, of course, chose to do exactly the opposite. "That's us," she told him. "I mean, sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well... Pete called us by those names. The man downstairs, who died the other day?"
"Yes," he said, looking relieved now. "Peter O'Shea. You knew him well, then?"
"Not really," Santana broke in, alarmed by where this was going. "We didn't see him any more than anyone else in the building did. He was just the crazy old man who lived in the hallway." But she regretted these words when Brittany gave her a hurt look.
The landlord sighed now, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But there isn't anybody else he would have called by those names? And you are the residents of apartment 403, correct?"
Santana shrugged a little, not disputing this.
"Yes, we are," Rachel put in. "And I'm positive he wouldn't have called anyone else by those names. He thought we were... well, he got confused sometimes. He got us mixed up with other people who died a long time ago. But he never called us anything else."
"Look," the lawyer said, because by this point it was quite clear that he could be nothing else but a lawyer, and probably a badly paid, overworked one at that. He addressed the landlord. "If you're willing to vouch for them, that's good enough for me. This man apparently had no family, no one else to inherit. If it doesn't go to them, it'll be the government's problem, and who knows when you'll be able to rent the place out again."
Inherit? The word caught Santana's attention, but she still felt wary, like this was a trap.
The landlord thought for a second, weighing the benefits and the potential risks for himself. "I'll vouch for 'em," he said, nodding. "They're good kids. Always pay on time."
"Wonderful," the lawyer said, pulling out a different paper from the messy briefcase. "Can you sign this, please?" He uncapped a pen, holding it out to Santana. She took it, and then had the paper thrust in front of her. She made an attempt to read the fine print, but she didn't have her contact lenses in and she'd be damned if she was going to get her glasses right now. This whole thing seemed absurd. But the acquisitive part of her brain couldn't help conjuring up images of hidden fortune, of eccentric stashes of gold, of long-ago purchased stocks that were now worth millions. What the hell? Might as well take a chance.
"Turn around," she told Kurt, then unceremoniously used his back as a desk, signing with a flourish the name Olive Lopez.
She passed the paper to Rachel, who glanced at it and then said to the lawyer, "Could you wait just a second while I get my gold star stickers?"
"Rachel, just sign it!"
Sighing, she gave in. Kurt submitted to the indignity of being human furniture again while she wrote her name.
Taking the paper back, the lawyer seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at one thankless task accomplished for the day. "So, then!" He looked at the signatures. "Olive Lopez, and Greta Berry-Lopez..."
Santana threw Rachel a look of disbelief.
Embarrassed, she gave a tiny shrug. "I thought it sounded more official that way."
He went on, "I'm pleased to inform you that you are now the sole possessors of all the personal property once belonging to Mr. Peter O'Shea. Congratulations on your inheritance, and I'm sorry for your loss." These last words were spoken like something he'd memorized from a textbook. He snapped his briefcase shut, anxious to be gone.
"What personal property?" Santana demanded.
"Guess you'll soon find out, won't you?" the landlord asked. He fished a key out of his pocket and passed it to Rachel. "I'd like the apartment cleaned out by Friday. If you can manage it, Wednesday would be even better. I've already got tenants lined up."
"Oh, wait wait wait wait... hell no!" Santana said, now realizing what the trap had been. "You are not dumping this on us. We barely knew the guy!"
"Well, look, it's simple," he explained. "You don't want the stuff? We can tear that paper up, which means his property will go to the state, which means they'll send someone from the city in to trash it all. I've seen it happen plenty of times before. Or you can look through it yourself, decide if anything's worth keeping or donating, and throw out the rest. Your choice." He waited.
Brittany stepped closer, nudging her a little. "Santana," she said, sounding worried. "I don't want all his things to be thrown out."
The landlord was still looking at her, waiting. She restrained herself from unleashing an epic rant on him. With immense effort, she told him, "Fine. We'll take care of it."
The two men left, and Rachel closed the door after them. "This is bullshit!" Santana exploded, unable to help herself. "I wanted to spend my spring break sunbathing in the park and getting my gawkers on, not combing through some delusional old man's stash of junk. Why should we get stuck with this?"
"While I agree that it's a bit abrupt, I think you have to admit that you weren't going to be doing much sunbathing, regardless," Rachel said, and as if to emphasize her words, another low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. "Obviously, this isn't how I'd planned to spend my break either... I wanted to participate in a one-week acting master class taught by the guy who played Screech on Saved By the Bell. But now that this responsibility has fallen into our laps, I think we should embrace it. After all, as confused as he may have been, Pete wanted us to have those things. He chose us."
To Santana's surprise, Kurt seemed to agree. "You know, maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea for us all to get out of here, do something useful. You have to admit there's an atmosphere of gloom in this place that's more potent than Rachel's vanilla candles. Even the parrot is depressed. He hasn't said anything inappropriate in days."
"That's because he's molting," Brittany supplied. "He just needs some privacy. I know I need to be alone when I'm molting... though it helps if I'm thinking about Santana."
They all stared at her for a second. Kurt narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Brittany, I don't think that word means what you think it means."
Santana started to protest the whole idea again, because the lack of sleep from the past two nights was making her feel even more prone to argument than usual, but the look of silent hopefulness on Brittany's face stopped her. She suddenly realized that this was probably the best thing she could do for her, the thing that would distract her and cheer her up and maybe even lessen the guilt she obviously felt about Pete's death. "You really want to do this, don't you?" she asked, taking her hands.
She nodded, looking pleased. "Yeah, I do. I think we owe it to him. And who knows, it could even be fun. You never know what we'll find."
Though Santana had serious doubts about the fun part, Brittany's certainty settled the issue. "Okay," she said softly, then reached up to kiss her. "Let's go see what kind of heiresses we are."
They came down the stairs to the first floor, rounded the corner, and then abruptly stopped. Somehow they'd forgotten that the empty chair would probably still be there. Nobody had bothered to remove it yet. For a few seconds, the four of them stood there in front of it, silent. Santana glanced back at Brittany, and seeing the sadness on her face, she took her hand. "Come on," she said gently, pulling her to the apartment door. Taking the key from Rachel, she unlocked it and, with a bit of trepidation, pushed it open.
"Holy... crap," she muttered, peering into what looked like a dark tunnel between mountains of... well, from here it was hard to tell what the mountains were made of. Only that they were at least chest-high, and in some spots, higher. Santana stepped back from the door, looking at Kurt. "You go first."
"Why me?" he asked, uneasy.
"Because," she said, trying to think of something. "You're a man, don't you want to protect us?"
Rachel gave a small snort of laughter, but then looked guilty. "Sorry," she told Kurt.
Reluctantly, he went through the doorway and groped around for a light switch. The three girls followed him into the dimly-lit entryway, taking hesitant steps, and after a sharp turn, the path widened out into what must at one point have been a living room. But from the appearance of it now, it had probably been years, maybe decades, since anyone had been able to do any actual living in it.
They stared around them, shocked.
"Just think of all those hours we've wasted watching Hoarders," Kurt said in wonder, "when we could have just come downstairs."
"No wonder he lived in the hallway," Brittany said.
"You still think this'll be a pleasant little distraction for us?" Santana asked, looking toward Kurt but intending the remark for all of them. "I'm telling you guys right now, if we start finding plastic bags of feces, I am so out of here."
To Pete's credit, though, the room seemed basically clean, though with a stale, musty smell. There was no actual trash; the piles were made up of various kinds of clutter, and at a cursory glance, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to any of it. Boxes of fishing lure and tackle sat on top of guitar cases. A group of piggy banks were lined up next to a row of antique typewriters. A 1980s television rested on a 1950s television, which perched on top of a 1930s radio console. There were books and newspapers scattered everywhere, stacked on top of empty luggage and antique furniture. And more; much more than the eye could take in at a preliminary scan. It would take all day just to sort through this one room, and they hadn't even ventured into the kitchen or bedroom yet.
Brittany glanced around her and took a deep breath, as if preparing herself. She still looked a bit subdued, but now her eyes were shining with a sense of purpose. "Someone should go to some of the businesses around here and see if they'll give us boxes. Like the diner, and Angelo's."
"I'll go," Santana volunteered quickly. Even though she hated going out in the rain because of the horrid, unspeakable things it did to her hair, she welcomed the chance for some fresh air and a few minutes alone.
She went to the pizza place first, and they agreed to send some boxes over in the delivery car when they opened in an hour. Then, at the diner down the street, she struck the mother lode - they had dozens and dozens of boxes from previous food shipments that they were happy to get rid of. Of course, she had no way to get them all back to the building herself, but even without Brittany's assistance, she managed to turn on the charm enough for the owner to rouse his teenage son from bed and make him drive her. To show her appreciation, she bought breakfast to go and coffees for the four of them. At the register, she noticed a small display of energy shots, the kind that are supposed to be equivalent to three espressos. Considering her lack of sleep for the past two nights, they didn't seem like a bad idea, so she bought two and dumped them into her coffee.
When she got back, she found that the massive job of sorting through Pete's things was already well underway. They all stopped long enough to eat, but then went right back to work. Brittany was a bundle of energy, seemingly in ten places at once. She oversaw the division of items into three categories; trash, donations, and things she wanted to keep herself. It was this last category that gave Santana a few misgivings as the day wore on. She watched it grow with silent apprehension. Finally, she had to say something. "Brittany... you know we don't have room for all this stuff, right? I mean, what are you gonna do with a - " She examined the object in her hands, not entirely sure what it was. "A painted turtle shell?"
"That's folk art," Brittany said defensively, taking the shell from her and putting it back on the pile. "I think it'll look good on the cigar stand."
"We don't have a cigar stand," Santana said, confused.
"We do now," she replied, gesturing to a small piece of furniture that was already dwarfed by the items piled on top of it.
Refraining from further comment, Santana went back to her own corner of the room. It wasn't worth getting into an argument over. And besides, with the way she was feeling, any argument would probably have the potential to flare up into something more serious. Rather than clearing her head, the energy shots only seemed to be making her more jittery and irritable. When Rachel shrieked at a spider running up her arm, the sound made Santana's heart give a jarring lurch. Then, immediately, she gritted her teeth and wanted to hit somebody.
Outside the windows, the sky seemed to grow even darker as the day progressed. The sound of the rain was more muffled down here, so far from the roof, but they had the windows open in order to get some air flowing, and the pattering of the falling water needled away at her. Wasn't rain supposed to be soothing? Instead, she found that the gloom created a sense of perpetual early morning, and even well into the afternoon, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just woken up from her dream.
But for Brittany's sake, she hid it as well as she could. Kurt had probably been right, distraction was what they all needed. She did her best to immerse herself in the sorting process. And it wasn't all pretense; there were some genuine bright spots during the day. One of them was the discovery of a cabinet full of record albums from the sixties and seventies.
"Cool. Look at all these weird, giant CDs," Brittany said.
"Oh my God," Santana said, pausing on one as she flipped through the stack. "I think he actually knew John Lennon."
She passed the Rubber Soul album to Kurt, who angled it toward the dim ceiling light and read out the inscription. "To Pete, thanks for the laughs. Good luck with your filmmaking. John."
"Pete was a filmmaker?" Brittany asked in awe.
Further evidence revealed that he had indeed been a filmmaker at one time, and had even been on the road with the Beatles, working on a documentary about them.
And that wasn't the only surprise that the collected contents of his past revealed. It seemed that, despite the almost entirely sedentary nature of his last few years, he'd had quite a fascinating life. From a collection of photographs dating from the fifties, they deduced that he'd worked for a traveling circus for a time after high school, taking care of the animals, primarily the big cats. Handsome and youthful, and yet still with the unmistakable glint of humor in his eyes, he posed with lions and tigers as easily as if they were housecats. After this, he'd done a stint in the army, serving in Korea.
At one point, it seemed he'd also dabbled in acting, or at least had been a dedicated amateur in towns throughout the midwest, where he'd likely grown up. They unearthed scripts with copious notations, indicating that he'd played roles ranging from Henry V to Nathan Detroit, all most likely in local community theater productions. But dating from the time of his move to Brooklyn, there was also memorabilia from his many trips into Manhattan to see the real shows. The look on Rachel's face when she discovered an original playbill from the opening night of Funny Girl was so orgasmic that Santana had to move away from her, uncomfortable.
It seemed that when the acting career hadn't quite panned out, Pete had become a radio DJ here in Brooklyn, working for a classic rock station. Or, possibly, he'd given up on acting because he grew bored with it and wanted to try something new. But according to the evidence compiled piecemeal from bureaus and closets and trunks, it seemed that this was the job he'd held until he finally retired in 2004. It was hard to imagine him on the radio, speaking in the smooth, soothing tones of a disc jockey. In the time they'd known him, his voice was more often in the carping, occasionally paranoid register.
And when it came to the paranoia, they also discovered ample evidence of his obsession with espionage. There were dozens, if not hundreds of books on spying - about Cold War Russia, about Cuba, about China. There were letters addressed to various officials in the government, stamped and sealed, but apparently forgotten before they could be sent. There was even a box filled with what looked like some kind of bugging or phone tapping equipment. "Maybe he worked for the CIA," Brittany suggested optimistically. "Maybe he was protecting all of us." They didn't contradict her.
In a latched chest she unearthed from beneath a giant, empty aquarium, Santana discovered something that perked her up quite a bit. "Jackpot," she murmured to herself. It was a stash of Playboys from the fifties and sixties - strangely enough, this was the second time this week she'd seen some of them. But she didn't remark upon this to Brittany, who came to look over her shoulder. She remembered just in time that she was supposed to have been doing homework at the library.
Brittany didn't seem nearly so enthusiastic about the find. "Santana," she said, making a face. "You don't want those, do you? Those magazines are gross and sexist."
"What? No, they're not!" she protested, trying her best to sound innocent. "They're erotic, and empowering, and..." she trailed off, seeing that Brittany was still unconvinced. Changing tactics, she begged, "Please let me keep the porn."
Soon, Kurt discovered his own version of porn - an entire wardrobe filled with nothing but vintage hats and scarves. "Oh dear God," he breathed, clasping his hands together in a prayer-like gesture as he contemplated the majesty of it. "It's breathtaking. It's like Christmas and Easter and every pride parade in the world, all rolled into one spectacular gay holiday." He convinced Brittany to drop everything she was doing and play dress up with him.
To her regret, Santana found that the sounds of them laughing and teasing each other grated on her nerves. She hated feeling like this. But today, there didn't seem to be any remedy for it. She decided to turn her attention to the neglected bedroom, which they'd barely scraped the surface of yet.
While attempting to carry a box of framed pictures collected from the bedside table out to where the other photographs had been placed (they hadn't quite figured out what to do with these yet), the bottom of the ancient shoebox she'd piled them in tore through, and before she could catch it, one of the frames crashed to the ground. "Shit," she muttered. Stooping to pick it up, she was relieved but surprised to see that the glass hadn't broken. The last thing she wanted to see right now was more broken glass. She started to put it back into the box, but then paused, taking a closer look.
Slowly, she stood up, still staring down at it.
"Rachel."
Always keenly attuned to the sound of her own name, Rachel appeared in the doorway within seconds, clutching a broom. At Santana's gesture, she came over to her, curious.
"Check it out." She sat down in the window seat, the brightest spot in the room despite the gray skies.
Rachel sat down beside her and leaned closer to peer at the photograph. After a few seconds of puzzlement, she gasped. "Oh my God, it's... it's really them, isn't it?"
In the picture, two dark-haired women, probably in their late twenties or early thirties, stood on a fallen tree that formed a bridge over a stream. Though both were barefoot, they wore flower-sprigged dresses, and one wore a hat tilted at a rakish angle. They clung to each other as if afraid they would fall, but they looked at the camera with confidence, smiling, not really worried at all, it seemed. At the bottom, in faded brown cursive script, were the words Olive and Greta, Ashtabula County Fair, 1926.
"Ashtabula County. That's in Ohio," Rachel said in a marveling voice. "That must be where Pete lived when he was a little boy. What are the chances?"
"You know, deep down," Santana admitted, "I always kinda thought the whole lesbian aunts thing was just a figment of his imagination. But I guess not."
Rachel continued to stare at the photo. "They seem so happy. I wonder which one is which?"
Santana gave her an bemused, slightly pitying look. "Olive is the hot one, I'm sure."
Rachel smiled a little, refusing to be offended. "You know, they do look a little bit like us. I can see why he would have gotten confused." She was quiet for a second, and then, as if confiding something embarrassing, said, "I know it's weird, but... I think I'm really gonna miss being Greta. Does that sound crazy?"
"Yes." Santana waited a second, then couldn't help adding, "But I know what you mean."
From out in the living room came a delighted yelp of hilarity from Brittany, probably spurred by a particularly ridiculous hat. At the sound Santana jumped a little, despite the obvious joy in Brittany's voice, and the picture shook in her hand. She took a deep breath and let it out, closing her eyes for a second, wishing to hell that she hadn't taken those caffeine shots. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep. More likely, the combination of both.
Rachel looked at her carefully, but seemed reluctant to say anything. As usual, though, she couldn't help herself. "Are you feeling okay? You look like you may be coming down with something."
Since this was an easier alternative than trying to explain the truth, she went with it. "Yeah, maybe I am. God knows what kind of microbes we've stirred up in this dragon's lair. And with all that spy stuff, I wouldn't be surprised if we're breathing in anthrax right this second."
Rachel tried for a smile, but it seemed to falter. She looked like there was something on her mind. "You shouldn't joke about things like that."
"Oh, please. I heard Kurt say earlier that Rhonda's coconut perfume was going to put him into a tackiness-induced coma, and you didn't have a problem with that." But then she looked at her more closely, realizing there was something on her mind and that she wasn't just being a moralizing prude. "What?"
"Nothing." Rachel waited a few seconds, but for the second time, her instinctive need to overshare won out. She began in a tentative, somehow troubled tone of voice. "It's just... the other night, when you left that benefit so early, without telling anyone... and then Kurt said you were upset about something..." She stopped, then started again, determined to finish despite the strange look Santana was giving her. "You wouldn't text me or answer your phone, and then we finally get back here, and the first thing we see when we walk up is... an ambulance. And Brittany, crying." She shrugged, staring down at her hands. In a strained voice, she said, "I thought... I don't know what I thought. But when I saw them bringing Pete out? The very first thing that went through my mind was Thank God. Thank God it was him." She looked at Santana, as if ashamed of her own words. "That's horrible, isn't it?"
"Rachel... Jesus." The expression on Santana's face was one of uneasiness mixed with bafflement. "What is wrong with you?"
"I know, I know," she said quickly, as if trying to brush everything she'd said under the rug. "It was ridiculous. I've been told I have... alarmist tendencies. I'm working on it." She was quiet for a second, looking down at the picture again. "Still, though. I'm just so glad everything was okay." As if glad to be done with the grim subject, she said in a brighter tone, "And also, I wanted to thank you."
Though she was still reeling from the bizarre and unnerving turn the conversation had taken, Santana managed to focus enough to reply, "For what?"
"For pretending to be my fiancé for eight months." With her typical awkward sincerity, she went on. "I have to admit, it was quite flattering. Let's be honest, even if I were actually gay, you would be way out of my league."
She gave a small laugh. "I can't argue with that."
Rachel smiled tolerantly, as if glad she could at least be funny. "Anyway. I'd better get back to work. There's still so much left to do." She stood, but Santana stopped her before she could walk away.
"Wait." She looked at the picture again, and then seemed to make up her mind. "You know what, you should keep this."
Surprised, Rachel said, "Really?"
"Yeah, why not?" She handed it to her. "Consider it, like, a memento of our engagement."
"Thank you," Rachel said, genuinely touched. "That means a lot to me. In fact, I think I'll take it upstairs right now, so it doesn't get lost." She turned to go, hesitated, and then, acting on impulse, she ducked down and gave Santana a quick, fleeting peck on the cheek. Then she hurried out of the room, as if terrified of the possible repercussions.
Santana rolled her eyes and then watched her go, mildly amused, but today she was in no mood to complain about the things that normally would have struck her as outrageous. Her expression gradually darkened as she tried and failed not to look into the eerie, somehow inevitable picture Rachel's words had painted. The ambulance, and Brittany crying... where had that even come from? How was it possible that it resonated so eerily with the way she was already feeling, with the disquieting dreams she'd had for the past two nights in a row? She shivered, running her hands over her own arms. Now that she'd been sitting still for a few minutes, the damp chill of the place was getting to her. She needed to keep busy, get moving again. Focus on the task at hand.
She gathered up the rest of the photographs, and, making sure to support the bottom of the ruined shoebox so that no more would fall out, she carried it into the living room and placed it with the others. Then she stopped, her attention caught by Brittany on the other side of the room. It seemed the fashion show was over, and from the muted clatter coming from the kitchen, she guessed that Kurt must have turned his attentions to that so-far neglected area of the apartment.
For a second she stood and watched Brittany, who didn't seem to notice her. She was standing on a small stepladder, lifting down objects from a bookshelf, one at a time, and then using a feather duster to clean the areas she'd cleared. Whether intentionally or not, she was still wearing one of the hats from the wardrobe; a dark red one in the cloche style, possibly from the twenties or thirties, and it was a little like the one from the photograph of Olive and Greta that Santana had just found. It made Brittany look like someone out of another time. Mesmerized, she stood there gazing at her, not sure if she was creeped out or turned on.
Still feeling darkness trickling in around the edges, and wanting to banish it in any way possible, she moved toward Brittany, like someone walking out of the shadows toward the light of the sun.
Finally, she turned and noticed her approach. "Hey," she said brightly, stepping down off the ladder. "Guess what I found? It's a collection of Happy Meal toys. And I know what you're gonna say... it's weird that Pete was buying Happy Meals, right? But, look... Kermit the Frog pushing a wheelbarrow! How could anyone resist that?"
Santana started to reply to this bit of adorableness, but instead, she reached up and grasped her face, pushing in for such a sudden kiss that Brittany stumbled backwards against the bookshelves, knocking over a group of plastic Fraggles.
"Whoa," she said, looking down at Santana in surprise. Her eyes took on a slight glimmer of coyness, realizing what she was after. Quietly, she suggested, "Um... do you want to go upstairs?"
"Why do we need to go upstairs? Let's just stay here," she said in a rush, reaching for her again, a desperate edge to the need. Right now it seemed like the only thing that would make her feel better.
Brittany gave into this second, hungry kiss for a few seconds, but then gently detached herself, saying, "Okay, but um... Kurt's just right in the next room."
"So? He's used to it." Santana looked around, frantic. "We can go behind that pile of typewriters. It'll only take a minute."
"Oh... okay." Brittany's eyebrows went up a little, startled. "Well, that sounds romantic, but..." She lowered her voice to a whisper now and glanced around the room, discreetly. "Aren't you worried about Pete's ghost watching us?"
"What?" She looked at her like she must be joking. "I already told you I don't believe in that crap."
"Maybe I do, though," Brittany said, attempting to sound reasonable and not insulted. "And I don't want him to think that I'm making you cheat on Greta. He's already been through enough lately, what with dying and everything."
"Brittany, that's stupid."
At the look on her face, Santana immediately felt terrible. Oh shit, what have I done? Hastening to backtrack, she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I didn't mean stupid. I meant silly."
Brittany looked at the tiny plastic Kermit toy she still held in one palm. "Oh," she said softly. "Okay."
"You know what, forget it." Santana backed up, now wanting nothing more than to erase the entire encounter. "I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well, and... I don't know what I was thinking." She moved toward the door and grabbed her jacket from the chair it was draped over, repeating again, "I'm sorry."
Brittany watched her with regret. "Wait. Where are you going?"
Pulling the jacket on in a hurry, she tried to sound casual. "I think I'll pick up some take-out for everyone, for dinner. I'll be right back."
"Santana..."
But she continued on out, mortified, not looking back. When she stepped outside the building she realized she'd forgotten the umbrella, but she wasn't going back in there for it now. Instead, she continued on down the street in the pouring rain, letting it drum on the top of her head and cool the flush of shame on her cheeks.
When she got back half an hour later she was soaked to the skin and shivering, but at least her head felt pleasantly anesthetized, the dark thoughts numbed for the time being through sheer exhaustion. Kurt was coming down the stairs as she came in, preparing to head back into Pete's, but he stopped to stare at her in shock, his eyes taking in her waterlogged, bedraggled appearance.
Wordlessly, she passed him the bag of Thai food, the paper drenched and dripping on the floor, but luckily not torn.
"I'm gonna hit the shower," she muttered, continuing on up.
He watched her, and couldn't resist calling out, "You know, it'll be weeks before your hair recovers from this."
"Thank you, Kurt," she said, with weary sarcasm that lacked the usual sharpness. "I don't know what I would do without you."
For the rest of the evening, she tried to avoid being alone with Brittany, still feeling awful about what had happened earlier. Brittany seemed to be more worried than hurt, but even so, it was easier to keep busy and not deal with it right now. They stayed late downstairs, finally beginning to see their progress as the boxes stacked in the hallway started to loom larger than the clutter still left inside. But there was still a massive amount to do.
When they finally went back up to their own place, Santana waited until Brittany took a late shower; then, when she was sure the water was running, she went into their room and, leaving just one dim lamp on, got into bed, facing the wall. Twenty minutes later when Brittany came in from the bathroom, she lay there with her eyes closed tight, feigning sleep.
She heard Brittany moving around the room, trying to be quiet as she got into her pajamas, then she felt the mattress dip the slightest bit as she climbed into bed. She gave just the tiniest, hopefully unnoticeable jolt when she felt Brittany's hand to come to rest lightly on her arm.
"You asleep?" she whispered.
Santana remained still, not responding.
After a few seconds Brittany sighed a little, probably not falling for it, but willing to pretend that she was. Santana heard the lamp switched off, then felt the warm pressure of Brittany pressing up against her back, folding herself around her. Against her ear came the warm, murmured words, "I don't know what's going on with you. But I'm right here if you need me."
She swallowed hard with emotion and used all her willpower not to reveal that she was awake. But still, she couldn't resist shifting her body just the slightest bit, back against Brittany, pressing even closer into her. She felt Brittany's arm draped over her, and her hand settled on Santana's own hands where they rested against her chest, clasping them. With a deep sigh, she relaxed into her, waiting for sleep to come.
She waited, and waited, and waited. She heard Brittany's breathing slow to its natural, even rhythm. She listened to the ever-present rain still blowing in wet gusts against the glass of the window. She checked the clock, watching as half an hour slipped by, then an hour, and then two hours. Despite the fact that she was so tired she could hardly hold her eyes open, she lay there rigidly, muscles tensed, nowhere close to sleep. She felt like a fishing cork bobbing on top of a lake, praying for something to drag her down into the depths.
Why was this happening? It couldn't be those energy shots from this morning, could it? How long could caffeine possibly stay in the bloodstream? With two nights of barely any sleep, she'd assumed she would collapse into unconsciousness within minutes. Though she'd heard people reference being "too exhausted to sleep" before, she hadn't thought it could be a real thing. It sounded like the kind of melodramatic lament her mom was prone to making.
Thinking of her mom made her long for her house in Lima; not for any nostalgic reasons of homesickness, but because of the fully stocked medicine cabinet in her parents' bathroom, where, simply by sneaking in once they were already asleep, she could have her choice of Xanax, Valium, or Ambien. She checked the clock again. 3:13. Son of a bitch. This was insane.
Pulling carefully away from Brittany, she climbed out of bed and slipped into her shoes. She knew what she was doing probably wasn't the best idea, and most likely wouldn't even work, but she was desperate. It was worth a shot. Quietly, she unbolted the front door and went down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor. Unlocking Pete's apartment, she searched around for the pill bottles they'd already consigned to the discard pile. To her relief, they hadn't been thrown out yet. Angling them toward the dim ceiling light, she read the labels. One was for heart disease, no good. One was for high cholesterol. Another was for chronic constipation. She made a disgusted face, putting it back. The last one was called Seroquel, and seemed to be for mental illness, probably prescribed for the dementia. The label warned that it would cause drowsiness, which sounded promising.
In his kitchen, she washed out a glass and hesitated, then shook one of the pills into her hand and swallowed it. She'd taken plenty of unprescribed medications before, despite the common wisdom that it was a bad idea. One of the perks of being a doctor's daughter was that there was a constant flow of prescription samples at home; she just had to know where to look for them. And the fact that her mother was a hypochondriac certainly didn't hurt either. So she was pretty confident that the worst that could happen was that the pill wouldn't work. If not, she was simply back to the drawing board.
But even before she reached the top of the last flight of stairs, an unusual heaviness was beginning to steal over her. Relieved, she hurried inside and re-bolted the door, and by the time she climbed back into bed beside Brittany, she was having a hard time moving without stumbling. She collapsed next to her, her eyes already falling closed, and before she could even reach down to pull the bedspread up over her again, her entire body went limp as sleep finally dragged her down into its depths.
And then, there it was, for the third time. Her bedroom. Her homework spread out on the black comforter, pencils and calculator and books. The TV, the low drone of innocuous, blandly annoying commercials. And then the political ad, getting louder and louder, drowning out even her thoughts. The futile attempts to lower the volume, and then to turn the thing off, both failing, just like the first two times.
For the third time, she moved toward the bathroom in a panic, trying to escape it, to leave it behind. She went through the doorway... and then stopped, disoriented. She found herself not in her Lima bathroom at all, but instead, in the living room doorway of the Brooklyn apartment, looking toward the couch. Three people were sitting there, staring at the TV with numb, sullen expressions. The two on the ends were Kurt and Rachel. The one in the middle was Pete.
Slowly, she went forward into the room, with a vague sense of relief that Pete wasn't dead after all. It must have been a mistake. But what was he doing up here?
"Aha!" he said, pointing at the TV. "There's two. That makes seven gays, so far."
She followed their gazes to the set, realizing that they were watching an old black and white movie on TCM. The two women in the scene strongly resembled the two from the picture she'd discovered, the one of Olive and Greta, but somehow, this didn't seem surprising at all.
Rachel gave a melancholy sigh, and Santana looked back at the couch. "It's just not the same," she said. "She was so good at this game."
"Who was?" Santana asked her.
There was no reply. It was like she hadn't even spoken.
"Remember the time she found four in one scene?" Kurt asked, his eyes looking misty with emotion.
"What are you talking about?" Santana demanded, louder this time. "That was me."
Still, no response. They didn't even look up.
Pete now smacked both of them on their knees, causing them to jump. He exclaimed, "Cheer up, you big babies! After all, you didn't even really know the girl. Maybe this was her last-ditch effort to steal the spotlight. You know what they say... Life is for the living!"
They didn't answer him, but they didn't disagree either. Baffled, Santana looked around for Brittany, because it was clear she wasn't going to be able to make sense of whatever was going on here. All of a sudden, finding Brittany was all that mattered.
As she neared the door, she heard Pete say, "She's on the roof, Santana." She turned back, startled, because the sound of him saying her real name was bizarre beyond belief. And now he was looking at her, even though Kurt and Rachel still had their blank gazes glued to the TV. "You should stop pushing her away," he added. "That's no way to treat the person you love."
Unnerved by these words, she still managed to reply, "Oh, like you would know."
As if moving through water, she somehow managed to make her way to the roof stairway, though nothing looked the way it was supposed to, and there were extras doorways where there shouldn't have been any. Emerging at the top, she saw Brittany, standing over near the ledge, looking down into the street.
Santana crossed the space to her, relieved at finding her, because she hadn't expected it to be so easy. Brittany stood in the pouring rain; it was running down her face, soaking into her clothes, dripping from the ends of her hair.
"What are you doing up here?" Santana asked, putting a hand on her damp, chilly arm. "Did you know that Pete is back?"
Brittany continued to look down into the street, her expression lost and somehow frightened. "I just miss you so much," she said. It was hard to tell whether she was crying or not with the raindrops sliding down her cheeks.
"I'm right here," Santana told her, confused.
Now Brittany finally raised her eyes to look at her, but the expression on her face didn't change. "Where did you go?"
"I didn't go anywhere," she insisted. "I'm right here."
From the street below came the gradually increasing wail of a siren. At first she tried to block it out, but when it became louder and louder, she turned and looked over the ledge of the building. An ambulance had pulled up and stopped just in front of the front door. With a vague sense of alarm, Santana muttered, "What happened?"
She turned to see if Brittany knew, but she was gone. She was now alone on the roof.
"Britt?"
With a growing sense of disquiet, she headed back toward the door to the stairwell. But when she went through it, she wasn't in the stairwell at all. This time, she was back in her own bathroom, at home in Lima, the room she'd been trying to get into to begin with.
Not really surprised to find herself there, she shut the door with relief, because now she could hear the familiar drone of the political ad again. When she turned back around, as she'd expected, there were the two halves of the glass, lying there on the sink counter like before, as if they'd been waiting for her. Drawn to them with a sense of inevitability, she picked one half up, rubbing her thumb first over the cold, curving smoothness of the empty interior. Then, slowly, she ran her index finger lightly along the broken side, tracing a jagged path along the edge of it. She stared down at it, concentrating on the way the light glinted off it, and now, finally, mercifully, the sound of the TV faded away into silence.
But suddenly a shadow fell across the piece of glass, as though someone was standing in the doorway, and she looked up, shocked when she saw who it was.
His brows were knit with that typical befuddled, innocent look. "I just wanted you to stop lying. I never meant for this to happen."
"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, the anger flaring up, like a fire running through her veins. "Who let you in?"
He stared back at her, half pitying, half judgmental. Instead of answering the question, he asked one of his own. "Why did you do that?"
"Why did I do what?"
She followed his gaze, down, down her own body. Then, feeling like she was moving in slow motion, she lifted her hands up, holding them out from her, staring at them in shock. Bright red blood flowed from both wrists, running in forking streams down her hands, dripping into a puddle on the floor.
"No," she said, more to herself than to him. She shook her head. "No, I didn't do this. I don't understand... it was that other girl. I didn't do this!" She held her hands over the sink with increasing terror, reaching out to turn the water on. She had to rinse it away. She had to get it out of her sight. But there was no water. Turning the handle of the faucet did nothing. The blood continued to pour from her.
"I just wanted you to stop lying."
She turned her attention back to him now, to his hulking presence in the doorway. "Get out of here," she said in a low, dangerous voice.
He didn't move, and only continued to watch her.
Driven by a sudden panicked fury that flared up in her, she threw herself at him, pounding on his chest with her fists, shrieking, "Get out! Get out of my house!" The front of his shirt was now soaked with blood, and still she continued to rain down blows on him, without noticeable effect. He wasn't moving. He was going to stand here, blocking her way, forever.
She woke up still repeating the command, feeling it torn from her throat. Immediately, she sat up in bed, feeling around on her arms, horrified. They were damp, but from what? She lurched out of bed, stumbled in the doorway, but somehow made it into the bathroom. Her heart pounding and her breathing uneven, she flipped on the light and examined her wrists.
There was nothing there. Her entire body was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, but other than that, her skin was smooth, unmarked. There was no blood.
For a minute she continued to stare down at her arms, letting her pulse slow and return to normal. She had no idea what time it was, or how long she'd slept. She could still feel the effects of the pill she'd taken, trying to pull her back down, urging her to close her eyes again. But she wasn't going to. As far as she was concerned, it would probably be for the best if she never slept again.
Just as in the dream, she suddenly became aware of someone standing in the doorway. Her mouth dry with apprehension, she turned to look. It was Brittany.
"Hey," she said, dazed and still sleepy. "What happened? You were yelling at someone to get out... it wasn't me, was it?"
Resisting with all her willpower the urge to simply fall into Brittany's arms, she placed her hands on the sink in order to steady them, saying, "What? No... no. I was... It's stupid. I had this ridiculous dream that we were in the shower together, and Rachel came in to pee, and she just would not leave. It was so obnoxious." Even in her own ears, these words sounded halting and insincere. Her voice shook just a little. "Like she did last week, remember?"
Brittany waited, as if hoping there was more to come, but when there wasn't, she said, "It's just... you seem upset. And that doesn't really seem like the kind of dream that would..."
"I'm fine," she interrupted her.
"Santana." She spoke quietly. "I'm starting to think maybe you should talk to someone. A doctor or something. You haven't been acting like yourself, ever since that girl..."
"I don't need to talk to anyone," she said, cutting her off again. "There's nothing wrong with me other than being poisoned by those nasty ass-flavored energy shots at the diner. I think I might have to sue them."
Worried, and clearly nearing the end of her patience, Brittany continued to watch her. She didn't bother replying to this last bit of nonsense.
"But since I'm up anyway," Santana continued, not making eye contact, "I think I'll head back downstairs, get started on the bedroom. There's still a lot left to do. And the funeral's tomorrow, so... we'll be busy."
"Okay." Brittany said quickly, as if glad that here, at least, she knew what to do. "I'll get dressed and come with you."
"You don't have to, Britt," she protested. "You should go back to sleep."
"I'm coming with you." This was spoken in a firm, decisive tone.
Santana met her eyes for a second, confirming that there was no point in arguing with this. She gave a slight nod, accepting it.
Somehow, she got through the morning, though she had the sense that she was sleepwalking during most of it. She kept putting things in the wrong piles, and Brittany would move them to the right place, without a word. After a few hours, Rachel and Kurt came down, and were astonished to see how much they'd already gotten done.
"Why did you start so early?" Rachel asked, confused.
Santana couldn't seem to think of any reasonable reply to this, so she looked at Brittany, who came to her rescue. With a casual shrug, she said, "You know that saying, the early bird gets the weed."
"Actually, Brittany, I believe it's the early bird gets the worm," Rachel couldn't help pointing out in school-marmish tone.
Brittany gave her a judging look. "Gross. Why would someone want to smoke a worm?"
Santana helped finish up the living room, but it began to seem as though her contributions were more of a hindrance than a help. She kept dropping things. It was like she couldn't make her hands obey her brain; they seemed strangely disconnected from her.
"What is going on with you today, Miss Butterfingers?" Kurt asked, picking up a pair of souvenir shot glasses that had rolled from her grip.
Flustered, she avoided meeting his gaze. "I don't know... maybe it's PMS or something."
He thought about this, puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."
"You know what, screw you, Kurt, you don't even have a uterus!"
His eyebrows lifted a bit, but he wisely refrained from saying more, and for the rest of the afternoon he tried to stay out of her way.
The day wore on, and the apartment gradually began to empty out. The living room was almost finished, and a truck from the local Goodwill had already come to pick up one large load of furniture. (Not his recliner, though. So far, none of them could stand the thought of getting rid of that. And since it was in the hallway, they figured it technically wasn't their problem.) Santana began to feel a little better after lunch. Or maybe it was just that the sleep deprivation was starting to induce a kind of loopy buzziness, a sensation a little like that of being stoned. She was able to smile affectionately at Brittany's excitement upon finding a box of old film reels. "Do you think these are movies that Pete made?"
"I don't know," she told her. "But maybe later this week we can take 'em and have them transferred onto DVDs. Then we'll be able to find out."
Shortly after this discovery, Kurt found a working record player, and they put on some of Pete's Beatles albums for background music. Santana wished they'd thought of it yesterday. It was strange how the simple fact of music playing could make her feel calmer, more like herself.
Toward late afternoon, she was nearly finished with the bedroom. Other than the bed itself, all that remained was a massive bureau. The top drawers had all been emptied out, but the bottom one was stuck. She tried it, then had everyone else try it, but no one could budge it from the dresser. The paint seemed to have warped and swollen, and the current dampness from the rain definitely wasn't helping. Brittany told her not to worry about it; that they'd done enough and there couldn't be much left to find, anyway. But it kept nagging at her, like a locked chest with a missing key. She was examining the bureau from behind, trying to see if there was a way the drawer could be pushed out, when with a quiet pop the light bulb in the ceiling fixture burned out. She clenched her teeth together and stood up, irritated. The rain still poured down, and without electricity, the room was dark and shadowy. She'd have to replace the bulb before she could see to do anything else.
But to compensate for this annoyance, there was an unexpected turn of events. As she came back into the living room, Rachel was just entering from the front door, a yellow manila envelope in her hand. "Brittany?" she said. "I think this might be yours. I just happened to notice the corner of it sticking out... it was in his chair. He probably sat on it and it got lost in the cushions." Kurt came over to join them, intrigued.
Curious, Brittany put down the box of antique salt and pepper shakers she was holding and took the envelope. On the front, in a sloping, shaky script, were the words "For Ruby." Peering inside it, she froze, and her eyes widened in shock. Immediately, she passed it to Santana, as if needing a second opinion, or maybe confirmation that she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.
Santana looked down into the envelope. "Holy shit," she muttered. Quickly, she riffled through the contents. "There's like five thousand dollars in here!"
"I don't understand," Brittany said, looking guilty. "Why would he leave me money?"
"Maybe it's your child support back-pay," Kurt said with irony.
This idea didn't seem to make Brittany feel any better. Santana tried to encourage her to embrace it. "Who cares why he picked you? All that matters is that he did. You shouldn't feel bad about it, Britt. He wanted you to have it."
She smiled a little, but still didn't seem completely convinced. "I guess so. But Herman wasn't even real. I just made him up."
"Real or not," Santana insisted. "He made Pete so happy, and that's all that matters."
"Brittany!" Rachel suddenly exclaimed, looking excited. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
She considered this. "Are you thinking that the Trix rabbit and the Fruit Loops toucan should get gay married and have delicious, sugary breakfast cereal babies?"
Rachel's expression changed from excitement to puzzlement. "No."
She shrugged. "Then... I guess not."
Grasping Brittany's hands for added emphasis, she explained, "What I was thinking is that five thousand dollars would be practically the perfect amount of funding for a small, independent film production... say, one that's already in development and that you've already signed on for?"
Disturbed by where this was heading, Kurt hastily jumped in. "Wait a minute... while I agree with Rachel that independent films are certainly worthy of financial investment, shouldn't we possibly look at the opportunities that staging a live theatrical entertainment could present? Something like, oh, I don't know... a brand-new musical by a debut scriptwriter?"
"Whoa whoa whoa, how's about you both step off, right the hell now," Santana getting in between them and Brittany. "Because we are not doing anything with this money. We don't have an envelope with our names on it, Brittany does. Or... sort of. It's Ruby's money, and she can do whatever the hell she wants with it." She turned to face Brittany, adding, "Although, sweetie, I do feel compelled to let you know that gold is always a good investment. Also diamonds. Basically any kind of jewelry would be a super safe bet."
"Um... okay," Brittany said, looking a bit overwhelmed. "I don't really think I can decide anything right now, though. It's just so weird and sudden."
Rachel and Kurt were disappointed, but Santana gave her a supportive smile. "Of course... there's plenty of time."
Staring at the envelope with ambivalence, as though she halfway wished it hadn't been found at all, Brittany said, "I kind of just want to forget about it... for today at least."
"Here," Santana offered. "I've got to go up to get a light bulb anyway. I'll take it upstairs, so you don't have to look at it." She seemed faintly amused (because how could anyone not want to look at a pile of money?) but understanding at the same time. If Brittany had reacted in any other way, she wouldn't have been Brittany.
Glad for the opportunity, she handed it over. "Thanks." With a suspicious glance back at Kurt and Rachel, she leaned forward and whispered, "Hide it somewhere they can't find it."
"I'm on it," she assured her. Then, she reached up and delivered a light kiss to Brittany's nose. She had a scarf wrapped around her hair to keep the dust out, which made her look even more adorable than usual.
As Brittany gazed back at her, there was obvious relief in her expression at the fact that she seemed to be feeling better.
Though still exhausted, and trying not to think about the prospect of sleeping (or not) tonight, Santana had the vague sense that time itself was fixing whatever had been the problem. The more time that passed, the further away she got from Saturday, the more normal she would feel.
Upstairs, she hid the money in the same secret box where she kept her vibrator, reasoning that if someone opened it, they would be too alarmed to keep digging.
Passing through the living room on the way to the kitchen, where they kept the spare light bulbs, she noticed that Monty the parrot was looking particularly sullen and depressed. He sat hunched in his cage, staring out into the rain. She could sympathize. Feeling a little silly, but not too worried about it since no one was here to hear her, she approached the cage and tried to engage him in conversation.
"We've been kind of neglecting you the last few days, huh? Are you sulking?"
He yanked out a feather with his beak and let it twirl to the bottom of the cage, then squawked in an offended-sounding voice, "The Tony Award goes to Miss Rachel Berry."
"Yeah, you don't really have to do that when she's not here," Santana told him. She looked around for something to cheer him up. "Hey, I know. You want to watch some TV? I think there's a Real Housewives marathon on today... maybe you could pick up some choice new phrases about champagne or anal bleaching."
She picked up the remote from the coffee table and flipped on the set, then started to change the channel from MSNBC to Bravo. But before she could, the anchorwoman's words caught her attention, and her hand froze.
"-marks the latest in a string of gay and lesbian youth suicides in recent years, concentrated for the most part in the midwestern and southern states. According to the local Goodland Star-News, the school plans to conduct an investigation into the incident, though local conservative Christian groups have already lodged protests regarding these intentions. And although many have speculated that the manner in which online materials were circulated violates Kansas privacy laws, a spokesman for the Sherman County District Attorney states that no charges will be filed, citing the fact that the individuals responsible for the outing were friends of Corinna Mercer. The students in question have claimed to news organizations, quote, 'We never meant for any of this to happen. We just wanted her to stop lying.'
The footage that played during the last part of this segment showed the dark-haired girl from the easel pictures standing in her bedroom and staring straight into the video camera, smiling. She wore an I Love NY t-shirt, and the clip seemed to be part of her NYADA audition materials "So anyway," she said, "I hope you'll consider me. Because I'm gonna be a big star someday." She smiled, a little self-conscious, looking like she felt silly. "Okay, that's it," she muttered, and came forward to turn the camera off.
The newscast returned to the anchorwoman, who was making a requisite sad face. "If you'd like to donate to Corinna's family or to the Trevor Project, you can go to the website at the bottom of our screen for additional details. Up next after the break, which common item on your breakfast table could be slowly poisoning you? We'll have that and more, when we return."
The commercials came on, and Santana still stood there with her finger poised on the button to change the channel, but she did nothing. She breathed slowly, forcing herself to take deep lungfuls of air, even though she felt somehow disconnected from the process. There was a weight on top of her chest, like something heavy sitting there, suffocating her. She could feel the burn spreading throughout her entire body.
She didn't know how long she stood there. But finally, as if in a daze, she put the remote back onto the coffee table and headed to the front door. She went down the four flights, her knees trembling a bit, like she'd just run a marathon.
Rachel and Kurt were just coming out of Pete's apartment, pulling their jackets on and grabbing their umbrellas. She raised her head and tried to focus on what they were saying, hearing it as though it came from underwater.
"We have to go into the city for a while, the revue director called an emergency meeting. Apparently someone has been taking tap shoes for their own personal use and returning them without polishing them," Rachel said dramatically. "It's quite the scandal."
"We'll bring back dinner," Kurt added. "What are you in the mood for?"
That was a question. He was asking her a question. She tried to remember how to answer questions, but the best she could come up with was, "I don't know."
"Santana Lopez has no opinion on food?" he said in surprise. "I never thought this day would come."
"Just get whatever you want," she told them, wanting nothing more than for them to leave already. "I'm not hungry."
Rachel gave her a worried look. "I'm gonna get you a Vitamin C infusion. I don't want to hear any arguments."
To her infinite relief, they finally left. She went back into the apartment and stood in the middle of the room, unable to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Brittany came out of the kitchen. "Hey. Did you get the light bulb?"
She slowly turned her head to look at her. "Um... we're out." The pressure on her chest was getting heavier. It was becoming hard to breathe.
"Oh. That's okay, don't worry about it."
But she went toward the bedroom anyway, even though it was too dark to see what she was doing. There were words running through her mind now, the voices loud, insistent, as though they were right there in the room with her. Some were her own. Some were other people's. Some came from reality, some from the dreams. They were all mixed together, stumbling over each other, echoing in her head.
I think you're a coward. Claims to care about family values. The whole school already knows. Lesbian cheerleader. Last-ditch desperate effort to steal the spotlight. Not who you're really angry at. The first thing we saw was an ambulance. No charges will be filed. Didn't mean for this to happen. Just wanted her to stop lying.
Just wanted you to stop lying.
She went over to the dresser and put her hand on the knob of the drawer, staring at it for a second, seeing her fingers like they were disconnected from her, like they belonged to someone else. Then she grasped the handle and began pulling on it with all her might. The massive dresser shifted a bit, but still the drawer didn't budge. It was stuck fast.
A sense of impotent rage filled her, and instead of abandoning the hopeless task, she kept tugging on it, using every muscle she possessed, her breath now coming shaky and labored. "Come on, you piece of shit," she muttered.
She felt Brittany behind her. "Santana? What are you doing?" She put her hands on her arms and tried to pull her away. "Stop!"
Ignoring her, she continued her pointless battle with the drawer. Her entire body was trembling now, and there were tears in her eyes. The dresser moved forward a bit on the wooden floor with a dangerous creak.
"That stupid girl," she found herself ranting, not even aware of thinking the words before they were out of her mouth. "That stupid fucking girl... why didn't she just wait? Why would she throw it all away when she was so close to getting out of there?" With a gasp of effort, she gave the drawer another jolting tug, her knuckles white from the pressure. "She let them win! Why?" The word sounded like it was ripped from her throat. "Why would she do that?"
"Santana," Brittany repeated, sounding more worried.
She gave one more monumental tug, feeling the burn in the muscles all up and down her arms, even in her midsection. Finally, with a jarring wrench and a sound of splintering wood, the drawer cracked open a bit. But the force required to accomplish this had also dragged the entire dresser forward, and now, the foot of it caught on an uneven ridge in the floorboards, and the entire hulking piece of furniture tilted forward and began to topple over.
Brittany grabbed Santana by the shoulders and, using her own considerable strength, dragged her backwards out of the way as it crashed onto the floor, landing on its side with an impact that shook the entire room, sending a jolt up into their legs. The drawer popped out and sent its contents spilling over the middle of the floor - more photographs, hundreds of them, cascading and sliding over each other, sending up a whiff of old paper.
There was a stillness that followed the sound of the crash, but Santana wasn't aware of it, because she was shaking harder than she had been before. Something was rising up in her, coming to the surface, and she couldn't push it back down this time. She tried to catch her breath, but the sobs were choking her. With the instinct of a hurt animal, she wanted only to go somewhere alone, to hide herself and ride out whatever storm was coming without any witnesses. She turned and tried to leave the room, but Brittany's arms were still around her, and she wasn't letting go. Weakly, she fought against her for a few seconds, but without much conviction. It looked more like she was being rocked in Brittany's arms than held back.
Then, she gave into it, because deep down the last thing she wanted was to be alone. Locking her own arms around Brittany, she buried her head against her shoulder. She still didn't understand why this was happening, but it was happening, and there was no stopping it. The sounds that were torn from her were heartbreaking to hear; wrenching, painful, shattering sobs. She couldn't remember ever crying with this much violence in her life, not even when she was a tiny child. There had always been the sense that it wouldn't help and that it would probably makes things worse, that it was best to push it all down, keep it hidden and out of sight. Crying was for the surface hurts - the bruised ego, the thwarted demand. Not for the deeper things, where the real pain lurked.
But the floodgates were opened now, and for the first time she let herself be swept away on the current of that buried pain; feeling it wash through her, all the emotions mixed up together, the ones she'd tried so hard to ignore the first time around. There was the shock of hearing those words first spoken in the hallway, followed by the nagging anxiety that everything he'd said was true. There was the panic and shame of seeing the ad, the nakedness of exposure. The rage that had to be bottled up after that one clarifying slap, because there was nothing that could be done with it. The bewilderment and the confusion over the fact that they all cared about her, they loved her, they wanted to help; but they were doing it the wrong way. And there was no way to explain it. No way to make them understand. Everything was happening to her, for her own good, whether she was ready for it or not, and the only choice was to submit and try to make the best of it. That was another thing that had to be put away, out of sight, because it did no good to dwell on it. It had happened, it was over. It was over.
Then why, for these last few days, didn't it feel over? She continued to weep with shuddering, choking force. It seemed to go on forever, like it would never end. If Brittany's arms hadn't been around her so tightly, she felt like she would have come apart into pieces or collapsed onto the floor. Brittany supported her, swaying a little bit to try to soothe her, holding her through the worst of the storm. Her expression over Santana's shoulder was stricken, tears standing in her eyes, threatening to fall. But she was using all her willpower to stay strong.
"I hate him." Santana's words sounded strangled, her teeth clenched around them. "I hate him."
"Who?" Brittany asked, alarmed. "Pete?"
For a minute she didn't answer. She drew in her breath with a deep, tearing gasp. The muscles of her throat spasmed painfully.
"Finn."
Her voice hitched on the word, but Brittany understood it just fine. There was at first the faintest hint of surprise on her face, but then the opposite... an expression that said Oh. Of course. She pulled her even closer, squeezing her as if trying to take the hurt into herself, to lift some of the weight of it and shoulder it for her.
"Those girls the other night, at the benefit?" Santana gasped out, trying and failing to catch her breath. "They already knew who I was. They were complete strangers to me, and they knew I was gay! And it could happen again." She pulled back a little, looking up at Brittany, her face streaked with tears, ravaged-looking. "In ten years, in twenty years... I could walk into a restaurant, or a party, or a job interview, and someone could know that I'm gay before they know anything else about me. Before I even decide to say it. That shouldn't happen. None of it ever should have happened!" She shook her head, as if still in disbelief that it had happened.
Brittany didn't seem to know what to say other than a soft, "I know."
"I was so close, Britt. I was so close to being ready. I wanted to do it on my own. I thought about so many different ways to tell everyone..." she trailed off, her breath hitching again. "You know I would have, right?" There was a sense of desperation to the question, as though she wasn't completely sure of the answer. "You know I would have done it?"
"Of course I know," she said. She pulled her close again, repeating in an emphatic murmur against her ear, "I know you would have."
Santana let herself be rocked back and forth, held against her, but the force of her passion was wearing itself out now. Finally, the sobs began to taper off into a quieter, but in some ways sadder and more weary-sounding weeping. Brittany stroked her hair, running her hand through it over and over again, pressing her lips to the spot just below Santana's ear. Standing in the middle of the darkened room, rain still falling against the window, they both seemed to have lost any sense of time.
After a while, her breath began to come easier, no longer in jagged gulps. She felt drained, exhausted... but somehow cleansed, like she'd gotten some kind of poison out of herself. She hadn't even realized how long the poison had been building up, waiting for the right time.
She sniffled against Brittany's shoulder and said quietly, "That wasn't true." She pulled back again, looking up at her. "What I said before, about Finn... it's not true. I don't hate him... I don't." She thought for a second, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "But in a way, I'll never be able to forgive him. Not completely. I thought I could, but... I can't." She looked down at floor, bitterly, as if realizing something about herself. "I told you I wasn't a good person."
Brittany swallowed hard, still attempting to master her own emotion. "Well, if that makes you a bad person, then I guess I'm one too. Because I'll never forgive him either."
Santana stared at her, looking to see if she could tell whether this was the truth, or whether Brittany was just trying to make her feel better. But no... it was the truth. She could see it immediately. And maybe it shouldn't have made her glow inside to know that they shared something so dark, so bleak. But it did. It made her feel less alone.
Brittany seemed to consider her next words for a long time, as if unsure whether it would be wise to voice them at all. "Did he ever say he was sorry?"
Santana gave her a wan smile, then stared at her hands and shook her head just the slightest bit, replying in a whisper, "No."
Pulling the scarf out of her hair, Brittany passed it to her, as if it was the only thing she could think of to do. Grateful, Santana took it and wiped her face, then discreetly blew her nose in it.
"I don't want to be some stereotype," she said, her voice breaking again. "I don't want to carry this anger around. I didn't even know I still was. It's been more than a year... I thought I would be over it by now."
Considering this, Brittany suggested softly, "Maybe you never really get over something like that. Not completely, anyway."
She shrugged a little. "Yeah, not until you're dead."
She'd meant the words to sound joking, to try to bring this whole painful conversation back onto a lighter, more natural footing, now that the worst seemed to be over. But the remark appeared to have the opposite effect on Brittany. Her face darkened a bit, with something like fear. For a minute she looked at the floor, at the pictures strewn around their feet. But then she raised her eyes again and looked straight at her, as if making up her mind to ask a question she'd always been afraid to hear the answer to.
"Santana," she said, still hesitant. "Did you ever think about... doing what that girl did?"
For a minute she didn't reply. Her first instinct was to say no. To Brittany, of all people, the only thing she should say was no. Of course not.
Instead, she found herself telling the truth, letting more of the poison out. Her words were slow, halting, and she glanced at the rain-darkened window from time to time, but mostly she kept her eyes on Brittany's.
"The day I saw that campaign ad in Coach Sue's office?" she began. "That night, after you left, I was doing homework... trying not to think about it. I figured it would never actually air, you know? I thought someone would put a stop to it. Someone had to." She paused, still mystified as to why someone hadn't. "And then all of a sudden, there it was. During an episode of Grey's Anatomy. Like that show's not melodramatic enough already without ruining my life, right?" She attempted to smile, failed. "And when I realized that... there was nothing I could do, that it was out there, and I couldn't stop it... I had no control over it. It was just this thing that was happening to me." She waited a second. "And... yes. I thought about it." She lowered her voice even further, just barely above a whisper. "I even thought about how I would do it."
Brittany drew in her breath a little; a quiet, inward gasp, an involuntary reaction to the words she'd already known were coming. She didn't break their locked gazes, even though her eyes were welling with tears.
"But then..." Santana went on, running her hands down Brittany's arms, squeezing her hands, "Then I thought about you. I thought about someone having to tell you. Your parents, or Ms. Pillsbury maybe... anybody. Somebody would have had to tell you." She stopped, waiting for the knot in her throat to subside a little before she could go on, because somehow, this was the hardest part yet. "I thought about what it would have done to you, to hear those words. And once I had that picture in my mind? I never thought about it again."
After continuing to watch her for a few seconds, Brittany slowly reached forward, and Santana closed her eyes at the calm, soothing gentleness of the hand caressing her face. How could there be so much pure love in just a touch? She tilted her head back to receive the kiss that she could feel approaching, tasting the salt of tears on her lips, whether her own or Brittany's, she wasn't sure. The warmth of Brittany's mouth seemed to banish the damp chill of the room, and she let herself lean back a little, knowing her weight would be supported.
Reaching out with her free arm, Brittany pulled the quilt from Pete's bed. It looked like a genuine antique, probably pieced and sewn by women long-dead. But the thought of death had no place in this room at the current moment, as Brittany spread the quilt out on the floor and tenderly tugged Santana down onto it with her. Glad to let her knees give way underneath her, Santana knelt on the quilt, then raised her arms to let Brittany slowly lift her shirt over her head, in a graceful, balletic motion. She swayed back and forth a bit, keeping her eyes closed, feeling the soft press of kisses on her eyelids, on her cheeks, her nose, her mouth, then feeling herself dipped gently backwards, the cool softness of the quilt fabric under her bare shoulders.
She felt like she was in a kind of trance state, not entirely awake, even though a part of her was aware of everything that was happening. In a way, she was even more aware of it than she normally would have been. Every kiss, every touch, every sensation was magnified. And yet still her breathing remained calm and deep. Brittany's lips trailed from her neck, down across her breasts; she could feel the soft, healing heat of her mouth even as she seemed to drift away from her own body. She felt Brittany's hands knead across her stomach, felt her tongue darting out along the line of her hips. She felt her jeans tugged off, but in such a peculiarly light way, as though they'd barely been attached to her. She felt the warm, stroking pressure of the hand between her legs, moving with a soothing, healing sureness; not teasing her, not this time.
And then Brittany's mouth was on hers again, and with a supreme effort she raised her limp arms to wrap them around her. The state she was in felt almost hypnotic, but she was more than aware of the growing pressure, the almost unbearably sweet tension flickering through her. She moved in soft, undulating waves against Brittany, and Brittany moved back against her. She lost track of time, but when she felt herself approaching the peak, she knew this was different, much different, than it had ever been. Her heart wasn't pounding, her breathing wasn't even speeding up, everything remained calm, quiet... like it was happening in a dream. She felt her muscles tense up, then spasm, sending out their shockwaves of pleasure, and yet this odd peacefulness seemed to make it last longer than it ever had. She held on to Brittany, not even breaking their kiss; another first. When it was finally over, when the piercing sweetness threatened to be too much, she grabbed Brittany's arm to still her, but she clamped her legs around her hand, wanting to feel the warmth of her skin against her for a little longer.
For a while they lay there, locked together. There seemed to be something different about the room, as though it was growing lighter, but maybe it was just that the darkness inside her had lifted. Santana felt that now, right this minute, she could easily drift into sleep. She hovered just on the edge of it. And she felt almost positive that the nightmare wouldn't return, not again. But she forced herself to open her eyes and reach toward Brittany, grabbing her by the hips and hooking her fingers into her waistband, pulling her closer.
To her surprise, though, Brittany gripped her wrists and gently but firmly pushed her hands back, resting them by her sides again with a sense of finality as she delivered one last, lingering kiss. "Later," she whispered. She smoothed her hair back. "You're so tired."
Santana gazed up at her, grateful, determined to make up for it when she'd had some rest. She would make up for it so well that Brittany would hardly be able to get out of bed when she was finished. But for now, she was the one who felt like she could hardly move.
Not, that is, until Brittany raised her eyes, her attention caught by something a few feet away. "Look," she said in wonder. "It finally stopped."
With an effort, Santana raised up on her elbow to see what she meant, and discovered a bright, vertical bar of sunshine slanting in against the faded, rose-strewn wallpaper.
Driven by the same instinct, they pulled themselves up and moved across the short space, wrapping the quilt tightly around them before they sank down against the wall. Santana closed her eyes and leaned against Brittany, relishing the warmth of the sun on her face, feeling it on her body even through the blanket. It was sinking fast as evening came on, but they could make the most of it while it lasted. Through the open window there drifted the sound of a few birds singing, thankful that the skies had cleared.
When she opened her eyes again, she was staring at the cascade of photographs still on the floor. Even from here, she could make out another one with Olive and Greta, the two of them older in this one, seated in a porch swing with a little boy between them. In fact, most of the pictures seemed to be similar. The two of them, or sometimes just one of them, with a little boy.
"Oh my God," Santana said softly under her breath, as if she'd just been struck with the realization. "They weren't his aunts. They probably just made him call them that, for appearances." She paused, saying with a slight air of disbelief, "They were his mothers."
"Wow," Brittany said, letting the idea sink in. "It sort of makes sense, though. No wonder he wanted them to be able to get married so bad."
"I'll never understand how they could have been so brave," she said wonderingly. "As bad as it can be now... I can't even imagine what it was like then. It must have been terrifying. How could they stand it?"
Brittany's answer to this was simple. "They loved each other."
"Still, though. It would have been so hard. If we'd been born a hundred years earlier..." she trailed off. "I don't know if we ever would have been together." And just the thought of it, theoretical though it was, was enough to send chills down her spine.
"Yes we would have," Brittany said, no doubt in her voice whatsoever. "We would have been together no matter what. It doesn't matter when we were born."
"You think so?" she said, amazed at her certainty.
"I know so. And you know what else? If we'd been born in 1894?" She continued in a soft, unhurried voice. "I already know what we would have done. We'd have found a cabin, way up in the woods, in the mountains? With a lake down below it. And... we'd have a garden so we could grow most of our own food. And we'd raise goats, too."
"Goats?" Santana asked with a tired smile.
"Mm-hm." She kissed the top of her head. "And sometimes people would come up to buy herbs and stuff from us, because we'd know all about which ones are good for pregnant ladies, and weird old-timey STDs. And some people would think we were witches, but we wouldn't care, because that just means they wouldn't want to bother us. And maybe we'd have some horses, and sometimes we'd ride way, way up to the top of the mountain, and we'd look at the town, and we'd feel sorry for all the sad, lonely people in it. Because we wouldn't be like them at all."
The picture Brittany painted with her words was so vivid that when she stopped talking, Santana found it almost difficult to return her focus to the bedroom of Pete's apartment. Amused but also impressed, she said, "You've really thought this through, huh?"
"Well, when you're working on a time machine, you have to be prepared for anything," she explained. "You never know when you're gonna end up. I also have contingency plans for colonial days, medieval Europe, and ancient Rome." In a confiding tone, she whispered into Santana's hair, "I'm actually kind of rooting for that last one, because in my head, you look really hot in a toga."
Santana laughed a little, pressing closer against her. "Oh, I definitely would." After a minute, she said, "I'm glad we're alive now, though." She hadn't intended it, but she felt the double meaning of the remark, and Brittany seemed to as well.
"Me too."
They continued to lean against each other as the bar of sunlight slid down their bodies, bringing evening with it.
At the front of the church the next afternoon, Santana attempted to position a flower arrangement so that it showed to its best advantage. So far there were only a few bouquets, so in order to make the area in front of the casket look fuller, the four of them had been trying different positions for the various displays of flowers. Kurt seemed to consider himself an expert on the process and was attempting to dictate exactly where everything should go, but Brittany and Santana staged their own quiet protest by re-positioning arrangements whenever his back was turned, giving each other playful, conspiratorial looks.
Despite the fact that they were here to attend a funeral, Santana couldn't deny that she felt better than she had in days. Something had been lifted from her, and the darkness had been banished. Last night, she'd had ten unbroken hours of deep, dreamless sleep. And outside the church, the day was bright, almost too bright to look at, as though the rain had polished the entire city to a sheen. It was supposed to be in the low seventies today, and for the first time, it felt like spring, even though according to the calendar it was officially still a few days away. So even though the occasion was a sad one, Santana couldn't help her brightened mood. But she had a feeling that Pete wouldn't have minded, and Brittany seemed to feel the same way.
Resting her hand on the closed casket, Brittany paused for a moment in their task. Santana watched her, curious.
"He's not really in there," she said after a second.
"You're right," Santana agreed, coming to stand beside her. "It's just his body."
But Brittany glanced around suspiciously, then turned to her, lowering her voice. "No, I mean, I don't think he's in there. I think the government took him. Or maybe the Russians."
She couldn't resist smiling, but she tried not to laugh. "Well, I'm sure he would be thrilled by that."
Now Rachel came down the central aisle from the back, carrying another bouquet to add to the display, the blossoms large and purplish-pink. "I hope you don't mind," she told Santana, "But I ordered this one from us. They're orchids," she added, with a brief, self-conscious smile. "I thought he would like that."
"They're perfect," Santana said, in a rare moment of sincerity.
Brittany took the bouquet from her to place on the coffin, then, as she stared at the flowers, realization lit up her features in a proverbial light bulb moment. "Oh my God," she said. "I just realized what a vulva is."
"Well?" Kurt asked, when they'd done the best they could do. "Shall I get the priest? It looks like it'll be just us."
But no sooner had he said the words than the heavy door at the back of the nave swung open, and Mr. Bloom came in, groping around at the sudden darkness... or possibly groping around because he'd already been drinking. Following not far behind him were Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen, and then the landlord.
Over the next twenty minutes, more people from the building trickled in, some of whom they knew by name, some of whom they knew only by sight. There was the young couple from the second floor and their quiet six-year-old twin girls. There was Rhonda, looking anxiously over her shoulder as if expecting to be arrested at any moment. There was the sour middle-aged woman from apartment 303, the one directly below theirs, who sometimes pounded on her ceiling with a broom when they made too much noise. Even Wei, the Chinese mailman who'd spent his fair share of mornings dodging Pete's thrown slippers, was there, with his bag slung over his shoulder, as though he'd stopped in the middle of rounds to pay his respects.
The four of them watched the inhabitants of the building assemble, amazed, but also grateful and touched. As some of the tenants came up to the front to set down a flower arrangement or a potted plant, they stated their own particular identity in Pete's cosmos. "He thought I was his Army buddy," Mr. Bloom said to no one in particular. "Gene, he called me. You know, I was never in the army a day in my life, but somehow... I feel like I was."
"Silly mon thought I was his grandmother," Rhonda said in her lilting accent. "Always asking me to bake him my special brownies."
Santana's forehead wrinkled just a bit as she considered this remark, since she had a pretty good idea she knew the secret ingredient in any "special brownies" Rhonda might bake.
An obese woman from the second floor piped up. "He thought I was a gymnast from the circus he used to work in. It's like he could tell I used to be thin," she added earnestly.
"He thought I was John Lennon," said the twenty-something black guy who lived in the apartment next to Pete's.
The priest arrived now, and the four of them took their seats in the front row as the service began. He delivered some obligatory, vague remarks about the nature of life and death, none of which had much of anything to do with Pete. During a prayer, Santana noticed that instead of bowing her head, Brittany was staring behind them, at a wrinkled old woman seated alone in a pew, far in the back of the nave, near the door.
"Who is that?" she whispered to Santana.
She looked, but she didn't recognize her as anyone from their building. "I don't know."
After about five minutes, the priest seemed to have run out of things to say, and he asked if anyone would like to deliver any personal remarks. He waited, but nobody volunteered. Rachel looked at Kurt, and he stared back at her. After a few seconds of this wordless conversation, he stood up and, with hesitation, approached the lectern. Santana vaguely worried that he was going to make an idiot out of himself.
"Good afternoon," he said to the assembled tenants. "My name is Kurt Hummel. I think some of you know me. But most of you probably know me only as one of the loud, music-obsessed kids from the fourth floor."
"Woo!" Brittany cried, raising her fist in solidarity. Santana grasped her arm and gently pulled it back down.
He continued, more at ease now that he was past the initial awkwardness. "But however you choose to think of me, and my roommates, it's a good bet that it isn't the same way that Pete thought of us. Because Pete didn't think of anybody in the usual way. He didn't operate by the same rules the rest of us did. He made up his own. And yes, most of us probably thought he was crazy when we first met him. We may even have tried to explain who we really were, tried to remind him that the names he insisted on calling us weren't ours... even though the reminders never seemed to stick. But after a while, I think most of us realized that... maybe Pete wasn't that crazy after all." He paused for a second, and Rachel gave him an encouraging nod.
"Because when you'd lived as long as he had, been as many places, known as many people... is it any wonder that you wouldn't want to leave it all behind, just because you happened to end up in a ground-floor apartment in Brooklyn, alone? Is it any wonder that he got confused, with all of us constantly coming in and out of the building, the same way that people came in and out of his life for so many years?" He looked at Brittany, thoughtful, and then continued. "When my friend Brittany took Pete to the doctor a few weeks ago, they told her that he had dementia, and that that's why he couldn't keep things straight in his head. But I think we all know there was a little more method to the madness than that. His brain may have been failing him, but his heart knew what it was doing." Seeing her tear up just a little, Santana took Brittany's hand, threading their fingers together.
"Some of you may have grown up in New York City." Kurt went on. "Some of you have probably lived in Brooklyn your whole lives. But I know that some of you are like me. And like the three beautiful, talented women that I'm lucky enough to share an apartment with," he added, looking at them. They smiled back at him. Rachel glanced behind her at the assembled crowd, as if to make sure they knew who he was referring to. "Like us," he went on, "And, like Pete, you probably came here from somewhere else. Hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away. Maybe even halfway across the world." At this, Rhonda gave an emphatic "Amen."
"And when you got here, maybe, like us, you realized how scary it can be. How overwhelming. How lonely. And when you feel like that, what choice do you have but to find new people to love? What else can you do but make your own family? Even if that family is made up of people you never in a million years would have expected." He looked directly at Santana for this part, and she gave him a soft smile in return, feeling herself tear up just a little, in spite of trying not to. Damn him.
"And so that's what Pete did. He didn't let a pesky little obstacle like reality stop him from recreating his family, his friends, his whole life... right in our building. We all got to play a role in his theater. And for some of us, maybe, it was the role of a lifetime." Rachel looked wistfully amused by this, and leaned against Santana for a brief instant. "And I think we can all agree that, as irritating as it may have been at times, as much as we wished we could just hurry out the door, or go upstairs without being bothered... we never regretted stopping to talk to him. Because we knew how much it brightened his day. And most of the time, in spite of ourselves, it brightened ours too." He paused again, as if wondering how much more to say, but then finished simply. "We're all better people for being part of his life."
He moved away from the lectern, giving the casket a quick, fond look as he passed by, and Rachel sat up straighter and prepared to go to the front, since there was still one important thing left. She glanced at Santana, concerned. "If you don't feel up to it, I can do it myself," she assured her. Though she was convinced it was her Vitamin C intervention that was responsible for Santana's feeling better, she still seemed unsure about whether she was back to her full strength.
"No, it's okay. I want to." She gave Brittany's hand an extra firm squeeze as she stood, then released it. On the way to the front of the church, she stopped to give Kurt a hug as he passed by.
Facing the pews, she stood with Rachel, and they waited for the bored-looking nun at the piano to realize it was time for her contribution. Santana stared up at the brilliant, dazzling color of the stained glass, the sun streaming through it and just touching the base of the casket next to them. She suddenly realized it was the first time she'd been inside a Catholic church since she'd realized she was gay. Maybe she'd been avoiding it, subconsciously, without even being aware of it. But being here today, she didn't know why she would have been afraid. She felt nothing but peace.
The slowed-down yet still familiar chords of the Beatles song started, and Rachel began the verse.
There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
In the middle of it, Santana joined in to harmonize with her.
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
In the second verse, she took the first half, alone, and for this part, she couldn't help singing it directly to Brittany. Maybe it wasn't appropriate for a funeral, but it felt entirely natural.
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Rachel joined in to finish out the last part.
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
They repeated the last verse one more time, together, and Santana watched Brittany gazing back at her. For the space of the song, it felt like there was no one else in the room but them.
After the service, she stayed to mingle a bit with the other tenants, but after a few minutes she realized that Brittany had disappeared. Assuming she'd gone outside, since her own instinct was also to get back into the sunshine as soon as possible, she headed for the door. She saw immediately that her hunch was right; Brittany was at the bottom of the church steps, watching with a thoughtful expression the mysterious old woman from the back pew as she made her slow, limping, cane-assisted progress down the opposite side of the wide set of steps.
With sudden understanding, Santana approached her. "Brittany, I know what you're thinking."
Surprised, she glanced up at the space immediately above her head. "Did I finally make a thought bubble? Figures, just when I stop trying."
"No." She smiled, then elaborated. "I meant, I can tell by the look on your face." She moved closer to her, trying to engage her focus. "And I think it's a bad idea."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you to be disappointed. And it's probably not even her, anyway."
"There's only one way to find out." She had her stubborn face on, and Santana sighed, realizing it was no use.
The old woman finally reached the bottom of the steps and started along the sidewalk, coming right toward them. She passed, casting them a quick, sour glance, and then continued on. Santana thought that Brittany must have changed her mind, or maybe, for the first time in her life, had lost her nerve.
But she knew what she was doing. She waited until the woman was a few yards away, her back to them. Then she called out, "Ruby?"
Slowly, the woman stopped walking, and then used her cane to help her pivot around. "Who the hell wants to know?" she asked, bewildered.
Brittany raised her eyebrows at Santana, as if to say, "See?" She approached the woman, and Santana felt she had no choice but to accompany her.
"Um. Hi," Brittany said. "I know this seems weird, but... we were sort of... friends? Of Pete's?"
"Are you asking me a question?" she demanded.
"No." She looked like she'd been chastised by a teacher. "We were his friends."
"Well that just figures, that the loon couldn't have had friends his own age." As if realizing she was going to be detained for at least a few minutes, the woman - Ruby, apparently, pulled a cigarette out of her purse.
Brittany seemed at a loss as to what to say. She glanced at Santana, who gave her a shrug, as if to say This was your idea. Though in all honesty, she couldn't really think of anything either. This bitch was intimidating, even by her standards.
"Okay, um...see, the thing is, before he died? Pete had really been thinking a lot about, well, about you."
"About me?" Ruby squinted at her in disbelief, lighting her cigarette.
"Yeah. Or, sort of. It's complicated. But he was always talking about the stuff you guys used to do, when you were high school sweethearts. And then after high school, before he went into the army." Tentatively, she asked, "Do you remember all that stuff?"
"I remember it," she said in a low, somewhat sardonic tone, blowing out her first stream of smoke. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."
"Well, isn't that sweet," Santana said, chancing a smirk. But the glare she received in response cowed her. She edged back a little, glad that Brittany was beside her.
"Anyway." Brittany said, as if determined to forge ahead even though this wasn't going the way she'd planned. "I think that time really meant a lot to him. And... he wanted you to have this." She took the manila envelope from her purse, and Santana's eyes widened in shock.
"Brittany," she hissed. But it was too late, she'd already handed it over.
Suspicious, Ruby balanced the cigarette expertly between her fingers as she peeked into the envelope. "Holy shit."
"That's what I said," Santana muttered.
"Is this some kind of scam?" she demanded, snapping the flap closed and fixing a keen-eyed stare on them. "I'm not in the mood, girls. I already got offered a baggie of magical disappearing juice by some asshole at the subway station this morning."
"He still hasn't found any takers?" Brittany said.
"So, what...?" Ruby continued, ignoring her. "Am I supposed to give this to a Nigerian prince or something like that?"
"No." She gave her a confused look. "I mean, you could, if you want, but it seems like if he was a real prince he would have his own money." She glanced at Santana, as if for support, and she nodded back at her.
"Well." Ruby blew out a long plume of smoke, and now for the first time her voice lightened a little. "I don't have any idea why he would have done this, but I guess if it's mine, this means I can finally get that knee replacement. Insurance crapped out on me about a year ago... don't ever trust those schlemiels," she warned them. She shook her head a little, glancing into the envelope again as if she needed to make sure she hadn't imagined it. "Peter was a crazy son-of-a-bitch. But he was a good man. I should have married him when I had the chance." She looked up at them, curious. "You girls got husbands?"
"No." Brittany didn't elaborate, having already learned that sometimes it's best not to go into specifics with these types of questions.
But Santana didn't feel like flying under the radar today. "We're together," she said proudly. "The two of us."
"Ahh." Ruby laughed, a rusty, but not unpleasant cackle. "Well, no wonder he liked you. Probably reminded him of home." She looked into the past, contemplative. "Those jealous old cats. You think it's hard to get a boy away from his mama, try getting him away from two of 'em." With a sigh, she dropped the cigarette filter onto the ground and stubbed it out with her shoe, at the same time searching in her purse for another one. "But still. Should have made the effort. Don't you believe all that bullshit about more fish in the sea. Sometimes there's just the one. When you find it, don't throw it back." She checked her purse again, coming up empty-handed. Then she gave them a strange look, as if they'd tricked her somehow. "What the hell am I talkin' about fish for? Either of you girls got a cigarette?"
They looked at each other. "No," Brittany said.
"Of course not." She said this in a tone that indicated her life was just one long search to bum a cigarette that no one ever supplied. Abruptly, she pivoted around with her cane and said, "Well, so long."
Santana had to admire the fact that she didn't even thank them for the money. In a weird way, she found that she actually sort of liked the real Ruby.
They watched her as she started off haltingly down the sidewalk, but then, as if Brittany couldn't help herself, she called after her one more time. "Ruby?"
Impatient, she turned again.
"Did you ever have a son?"
"No." She gave her another suspicious look. "I never had any kids. Why?"
"Oh." Brittany seemed sad for her. "I was just curious. Good luck with your robot knee."
She turned again, and this time, Brittany let Santana lead her away in the opposite direction, back toward the church.
She tried to resist asking her, but she couldn't do it. "Why did you bring that money, Britt?"
"Because I was gonna donate it to some kind of charity, after the funeral. I just felt too weird about keeping it. It wasn't right." She stopped and faced her, a bit worried. "Are you mad at me?"
"No." She smiled. Trying to think of a diplomatic way to phrase it, she said, "I think you did what you felt like you had to do. And that's why I admire you so much." She tried not to sound too hopeful when she said, "But I mean, you kept some of it, right?"
Brittany's smile was playful, but secretive. "Maybe." Then she admitted, "Probably not enough for gold or diamonds, though."
"That's okay," she assured her. "I don't need that stuff." She put her arm around her, and they continued walking.
After a few more seconds, Santana couldn't help throwing in, "But you know, I hear silver is a really good investment, too."
Staring at the screen of her laptop, she typed a few words, then deleted them, then on second thought, added them back in again. Sighing, she looked up with envy at Kurt, who sat on the other end of the couch with his own laptop, clicking and clacking away as he typed a mile a minute. He made it look so easy. Though of course, what he was working on bore no resemblance at all to what she was working on.
What Santana was doing, or attempting to do, after several false starts and a few days of procrastination, was nothing more strenuous than writing a letter. An email, technically, which by common wisdom carried even less weight than a letter. So it should have been simple enough, all things considered. But it wasn't. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life. And the hardest part wasn't even that the letter, or email, was intended for two people who were basically strangers. Though technically, through Kurt's help in narrowing down the uncle from the NYADA faculty, she now knew their names - Zoe and Hannah. So they weren't entirely strangers.
The hardest part, it turned out, was trying to describe in words - cold, lifeless, dead words - exactly what had happened to her in the autumn of the previous year, and why she hadn't been able to admit to them who she was when they'd first startled her with their questions at the benefit last weekend. Because now, she wanted to admit it. She wanted them to know who she was, and more than that, she wanted them to know that they weren't alone, and that if they ever needed anything, if there was anything she could help them with, even if they just needed to talk... she could do that. She was a text, or a phone call, or even a visit away. And so was Brittany, who had agreed to the idea without needing more than a few seconds of convincing.
But the idea, in the end, had been Santana's own. She hadn't been lured or persuaded or guilted into it by anyone. She'd thought of the possibility of reaching out to the girls all by herself, because it was something she wanted, something she needed, to do. Maybe, in spite of her earlier denials, she could be that person. Maybe, after what she'd been through, she had an obligation to be that person.
So, despite the fact that in some ways writing this email was the last thing she wanted to be doing at the tail end of her spring break, she was determined to see it through and finish it. If she did nothing else this entire weekend, she was going to make sure she completed and sent this email. But that didn't mean she couldn't be distracted when Brittany came into the room in a pair of tantalizingly short shorts, with a glass of lemonade for her, urging her to take a break.
"In a minute," she promised her. "I just want to finish this one part."
So Brittany sat down next to Kurt, leaning against him and staring at his laptop screen, knowing he wouldn't mind her nosiness. "Are you working on your musical?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," he told her in a chipper tone.
"How is Kip, anyway?" Santana couldn't resist asking. Kurt just made the mockery so damn easy.
"Yeah, has he met Bethany S. Bierce yet?" Brittany added. "Because he doesn't know it yet, but his life is gonna get so much more fabulous when he does."
"Actually..." Kurt said, as if deciding how much he wanted to tell them. "I've decided to put Kip aside for the time being. I'm working on a project about someone else right now, something new."
"Oh God, please tell me it's not about Rachel?" Santana groaned. "One vanity-project in development is more than enough for her massive ego."
Rachel, who had just wandered into the room, rolled her eyes tolerantly at this.
"No, it's not about Rachel," he said, as if the idea was absurd. "It's... Well, it's about Pete. His strange, colorful life, and all the people in it. And also all the crazy, wonderful people in this building. I guess you could say I had an epiphany when it comes to my artistic direction."
Brittany's face lit up with excitement and approval. "I don't know what that last part means, but I think Pete's life would make the perfect musical. And... I get to be in it, right?"
"You have to be in it, my dear," he said, giving her an affectionate nudge. "Who else could play Ruby?"
"Awesome." She smiled at him.
"You guys." Rachel was standing by the front window, looking down into the street. Her voice sounded both surprised and sad. "They're taking his chair out."
They looked at each other, and then, with reluctance, got up and went over to join her. Two men were in the process of hoisting the ancient, plaid recliner onto the back of a pickup truck. These last few days, coming in and going out of the building had been a gloomy experience, but at least with the chair still there, they could halfway pretend he was just in the bathroom or fixing one of his frozen dinners. Not anymore, though.
"I thought maybe they'd just leave it there, like a shrine or something," Brittany said softly. "And we could, you know, throw pennies into the cushions and makes wishes on them."
"I heard the new tenants weren't fans of keeping it around," Rachel said. "They refused to move in until it was gone."
"You can't really blame 'em, though," Santana admitted. "They didn't know him."
"That's true," Kurt agreed. "And anyway, life is for the living, and all that."
These words seemed vaguely familiar to Santana, but she couldn't remember quite why.
The chair was loaded now, and the men went back around to the front of the truck and climbed in. After a few seconds they pulled away from the curb and started down the street. Brittany sighed, a sound of sad relinquishment, and Santana put her arm around her waist, pressing close against her. On Brittany's right, Kurt took her hand, and at the same time Rachel leaned against him on the other side. Nobody said anything else. There wasn't anything left to say.
They watched until the truck reached the intersection at the end of the block, turned, and disappeared from sight.
