When you walk through the door, you make it to the window bench, and you collapse. You collapse, because you just— You don't know what you're doing. You don't know what you did. You don't know how to be. You don't know why you can't just, let it be as it is. Except that you do. You know why. You'd said it. You know that if she breaks your heart, you won't know how to exist anymore. You know that you'd been a mess all day. You know that you should have talked to her before you'd gone out, because your love, hidden away, it's different than your love out in the world. It's different, at least for you, because you know when it's just the two of you, you're not afraid of what people will say. You don't feel your skin burn. Because you're you, and she's her. When it's just the two of you, you don't feel like you don't fit.
It hurts. It hurts so much. When you didn't know what it was like. It was different. You didn't think you were missing anything. But now. Now you're in so deep and— Maybe you were better off before her. Maybe you were better off by yourself. Maybe you were better off not knowing what it felt like to be loved. Maybe you were better off when no one touched you. When no one held you close and kissed every inch of your skin. Maybe you were better off when no one tried. When there was no Santana, who promised you things and looked at you with those earnest fire eyes. Maybe you were better off not knowing. Because now you know, and now, if it changes. Now you can never go back to as you were before. You're scared. It's all just. New. And hard. And you're messing it up by trying not to.
You curl up there, in your little window bench overlooking Rittenhouse Square. You curl up there, in the place that lets you watch the world without partaking in it. Otis. He comes to you. He puts his head on you, and you just. Lie with him. He's your safe place. He won't hurt you. No one will tell him you're not good enough. Because it's his job. It's his job to stay with you. You see her. She's still outside. She stays outside for a long time. And she's crying. She leans against the lamppost and she's crying. You cry along with her, even though you're apart. You cry along with her, because seeing her cry, it ruins you. You don't know what you did. You don't know if you should run down the stairs now, and— No. No you can't. Your body, it just doesn't even know how to move right now. You're just, paralyzed. And you're so, so angry with yourself. You didn't let her talk. You don't even know what her friend, what he said to make her lunge at him like that. And you don't want to know. Sometimes, mostly, you're glad that you can't hear. Because. You can pretend that what people say when you aren't looking isn't there. You can pretend, but. But not with her. She can't pretend, because she hears it. And you, you don't want her to. You wish she couldn't hear too, sometimes, at least the bad things, because. Because, maybe then you wouldn't be so scared that it would get into her head. That it would someday change that she thinks you're special. That those fire eyes would change from love to frustration.
You can't stop crying. You've never cried so much in your life, you think. She walks away, shoulders hunched. She walks away, because you told her to. But. But. But. It hurts. The pain in your chest. It's just. It consumes you. She makes you feel like fire. But this fire, it's not from her. It's from inside of you, it's choking you. This fire, this ache of what you might have done. It's consuming you. Otis. He stays with you. And when you finally stop looking at the empty sidewalk below you. When you scrub what's left of the makeup off your face. When you tear your dress from your body. When you put on the sweatshirt that smells like her, the one she wears at night now that it's getting cooler. When you fall into your bed, trying not to snuggle into the pillow she uses. He doesn't leave your side. He lets you bury your face in his fur. He lets you cry. He doesn't judge you. And that's why. That's why he's your very best friend. You cry about that too. You cry because you just, you don't even know. You cry, because you did this. You pushed her away. Because as close as you've gotten, you're afraid. And when your phone vibrates with three words from her. You just, type them back, but, you ask her again to give you space. Because space. It's the only way you're going to figure yourself out.
When you wake up, you feel hungover. But. You only had one drink last night. Your headache, that sick feeling in your stomach, that general feeling of awful that feels like it's in every fiber of your being. It's not from the alcohol. You roll over, you hope, you hope, that maybe this was all a dream. That maybe you didn't argue with Santana in the street last night. That maybe she didn't almost get into a fight in the bar. But. She's not in your bed. Otis is. Otis, who sleeps with you when you're in a really bad place. Otis, who you'd left behind last night, because you were embarrassed, or, didn't want to embarrass Santana, you're not sure. Otis, who takes care of you, always. You reach over to the nightstand, you find your phone where you left it before you fell asleep. There's an unread message from her, one single message, sent at one-thirty this morning, a response to your text message. And taking a deep breath, you open it. You open it, and she tells you, I'm here when you're ready. That's it. No pushing, no nothing. Just those words and a single red heart.
You hold the phone in your hand for a long while. Otis has his head on your stomach, looking up at you. He knows. He must. What with the crying. And with the absence of Santana. It's not like you spend every night together. But, more often than not, especially on the weekends, she's here. Or you go over there, and she spoils him rotten. Because she loves him. And she loves you. She loves you, and she's so good to you, and you're just. You're feeling really, really broken and vulnerable after last night. You want to talk to her. No. You need to talk to her. But. Your heart hurts. Your heart hurts a lot. And now. Now you feel even more afraid than you did last night. Now, after all that went on in the street, you just, don't even know where to begin to explain yourself. You should have talked to her when you were feeling messy before you left. You think you could have avoided blowing up because of what happened. But. You didn't. So now you've gotta try to figure this out.
Over and over again, you turn the screen of your phone on and off. The lock screen, it's the two of you. Her chin is on your shoulder, and she. She just, has that crinkly eyed smile on, and your eyes are closed. She took you by surprise, snapping the picture on your phone. She'd made you laugh, and, you can see it on both of your faces. Just the way you love each other. Just. Her. Santana. The woman you can't describe with words. And your heart. It squeezes, squeezes, squeezes until you can't breathe. You're so confused, so upset. You think of her. And you want the best things in the world for her. But. You can't stop feeling afraid that you're not it. You want to be. You want to be, more than anything, and when you look at her. Crinkly eyes and dimples. It just, it makes you feel like maybe you could be. Like maybe just making her smile is enough. But last night. Last night you'd made her cry. Last night was a disaster.
You look at the clock. It's barely after seven. You look at the clock, and you know she's awake. But. You're just. You're trying. You're really trying. Even after last night, when you'd told her you can't. You still are. You want to believe you're worthy of her. You want it so bad. And some days, some days she really makes you feel it. But yesterday. Yesterday you found your turtle shell again. Yesterday, all the other things in your head, they drowned her out. Your mom. The people who push and tease. Marcus. And worst of all. Yourself. You don't self-pity. You don't. It's your rule, one you made a long time ago, if you wanted to make it on your own. But, you'd had a low day, a scared day. A day when everything felt so loud, even though you can't hear at all. And now. You need to talk to her. You need to talk to Santana. You need to try to muddle through this. With her. Because doing it alone now? It seems impossible.
So you drag yourself out of bed. You take two Advil, and, after you look in the mirror and see your swollen, blotchy face, you get in the shower. You're stalling. You know you're stalling. But. You just need to have a fresh start. You need the tears gone from your hair and the remnants of mascara gone from your face. You need the physical reminders of last night gone, because the emotional ones are enough. You make coffee when you're done in the shower. You make enough for two, and then. Then you text her. You text her just one word at first, because you're not sure how to start. You text her one word, and you hope, you hope for both of you, that you're doing the right thing. Hi.
She answers right away. So fast that the vibration surprises you, and you nearly burn yourself on the percolator. Your hands are shaking. This, after all the two of you have done together, this simple text message exchange is making you more nervous than anything, and you suck in a breath, before you read her response. Hey. Your heart. It's doing somersaults in your chest. Your heart, it's responding violently to a single word. A single word that just, tells you she doesn't hate you, you think. A single word, that leaves this open for you. And you send her another message.Thank you for giving me space. Can we talk? You send it, and then, immediately send another. Please?
Anxiously, you wait. Once she tells you she'll be over soon. Anxiously, you pace the floors. You open and close the refrigerator. You open and close the cabinets. You debate making breakfast. But. You don't think you even remember how. Your mind is just full, full, full of twisty, squirmy thoughts. So you don't. You just take the coffee mug she always uses, her coffee mug, you think, the Phillies mug she'd made fun of, but still uses, and you set it on the counter. You set it on the counter and wait. Wait, wait. Until the light above your door flashes red, and you have to steel yourself. Your knees buckle, you're so nervous. But. It's just Santana. It's just Santana, except, Santana. She's everything.
Hi. You open the door, and she's there. Jeans and a black sweater. And her face. Her face. You can tell she's been crying. Your heart, it lies down flat inside of you. Because you hate that you made her cry. You hate this. And you have to push, push, push back down the nagging thoughts in your mind. If you made her cry, then— No. No. No. You can also make her smile. Make her smile that special crinkly smile. And you love her. You're going to be good enough.
"Hey."
You let her in, and Otis, he waits for your direction to go to her. And when he does, Santana, she rubs his belly furiously. She just. She has heartbreak eyes when she does. Like she's scared you're about to make things worse, and she wants to say a proper goodbye to him first. And the tears, they prick the backs of your eyes. Because you hurt her. You hurt her trying to keep from hurting her. You hurt her, trying to keep from getting hurt yourself. And that's not fair. It's not right.
She sits down across from you at the table. You pour her coffee, and you set it in front of her. Besides the hi and hey at the door, you haven't exchanged any other words. You haven't kissed her good morning. Though you want to. You want to so bad. You didn't kiss her goodnight last night, and, it's funny how those little things, those everyday things, when they're missing, they just make you feel off balance. You think, even if you weren't having this thing right now, this terrible weirdness, you'd still feel off, if you didn't give her a kiss. But. Words first. Words that are hard for you to make. Words. Because you both deserve non-hysterical words now.
"Santana, I—" You pause, and you look at her for a second. Both hands on the mug, watching you, watching you. Waiting. "I just…I love you."
I love you too, Britt. You wish, you wish you could hear the way her words sound. Because. It makes a difference. It really does. If she's angry, or sad, or defeated. But. Really, all those things are bad, and her heartbreak eyes, they're tearing through you.
"I shouldn't have yelled at you like that last night and then walked away without giving you a chance to say what you wanted to say. And. I'm sorry."
You're right, you shouldn't have. She picks a little at the cuticle of her thumb, but she never stops looking at you. I understand you were upset, and so was I. But when you push me away from you, Brittany, I can't— I just can't.
"You just. You scare me so much sometimes, Santana."
Why though? I've never, ever given you reason to be afraid of me. And I try, I try so hard… She brings her palms up and wipes her eyes, and your fingers twitch. They twitch to reach out and touch her. To comfort her. But you aren't sure if, if you should just yet. Because words. You still need more words.
"I know." You look down. Because her eyes. They just. They're so intense. "And I'm trying too. I am. I'm not afraid of you because of you. I'm afraid of you because of me. And, I do, I do look at you and see that I'm everything in your eyes, like you said last night. And. I just, I think, nothing scares me more than thinking I might look in them someday and see that I'm not anymore. I'm afraid that someday I'm going to embarrass you, like—"
Brittany. Sweetheart. She uses the endearment, and your heart, it oozes a little. Then she reaches across the table, and she finds your hand. She finds it, and she fits it right in hers. Squeezing it. Letting it be engulfed in her warm, sure grip. You could never, okay? Nothing about you is embarrassing. Not Otis. Not the way you speak, or your excited little squeals. They're some of my favorite things about you. I made a mistake last night, not telling my friends you were deaf before you met them. But it wasn't because I'm embarrassed of that. It was because it just really just, doesn't define you for me. I'm not a fortune teller. I wish, so much, that I could sit here and promise you that nothing will ever change from how it is right now. But, I can't do that, Britt. All I can promise you is that I'm going to work my ass off to make this relationship work, if you'll work with me, if you won't run away from me when you feel like things are hard. Relationships, they're built on faith and trust and love. I have faith and trust in us.
"I want to, Santana. I want to more than anything. It's just really hard for me."
I know. I know it is. I came into your life after you'd been told for so long that you're not good enough. I can't just magically erase all that. But— She looks at you, she looks in you, and she squeezes your hand, tight, so tight. I'm not your mom, Brittany. What anyone else says or thinks is never going to change what I think of you.
"Santana." You feel the tears in your eyes, you feel them run down your cheeks and burst on the table. You feel the way they burn on the way down. And you. You just. You feel something break inside of you.
Nothing. She lets go of your hand, and she signs the word for it as well. That, I can promise you. But. I need you to work with me. Brittany, you and I, we're in a relationship. You watch her take a breath, and then she points to you, and then to herself. She takes her right hand, and rubs the side of it against her flat left palm, before bringing them both down to her side. We're partners. You and me. And I know sometimes you need space, but what happened last night, you can't do that again. You can't run away from me in the middle of a heated discussion like that. It's not fair. To me, or to you either.
"I know. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was just—it was a lot." You press your fingertips together and then pull them apart. Her hands find yours again. They take them. They hold them. They just. Anchor your whole body. "I don't want to push you away. But, I don't want to trap you either."
You're not trapping me. Please, Britt. Stop with that. If I want to go, I'm free to go. You feel yourself wince, but she keeps stroking, stroking with her thumb. She keeps her eyes on you. She just. She's something. But I don't want to. I want to be with you. And I want us to figure this all out together.
"I want that too." You nod. "I don't want to mess it up."
You won't. You just need to tell me what you need when you need it. And you need to stay, even when you want to run.
"Okay," you tell her, and you watch a tiny smile creep to her lips. A tiny smile that makes your heart flutter. It's not crinkly eyes, but. It's still her. It's still her, and, you bring your clasped hands to your lips, just holding them there, just, thanking her, apologizing to her, loving her, always loving her, even without words.
Yeah?
"Yeah. I just, I might need you to remind you of that sometimes. You're the only person in the whole word who makes me not want to be afraid. Who makes me not want to hide."
I know that's scary, Britt. And I know that the world is shitty and mean, and that we're still learning each other. I'm sorry, that someone I considered my friend made you feel worse. I'm sorry you left Otis home, because I know why you did, and—
"You don't have to apologize, Santana."
I know that I don't, but I want to. I want you to know that Marcus, he's nothing. And, I want you to see where I come from, Brittany. I think it'll help you to understand me a little better. I want you to meet my mom, because then I just think you'll see it. Why what the world says will never change what I think of you.
"You. You want me to meet your mom?" you gasp. You don't know why you're gasping, really, except that. Her mom. It's different than her friends. It's so much different. Her mom, she talks about her all the time. She talks about the woman who gave her everything to raise her, to make sure she had a better life, and. Her friends, that's one thing, going really, really bad, but, her mom—
Hey. She must read it on your face. That you're scared, or, not even scared, just, overwhelmed, you think is a better word. I've wanted you to meet her from basically the moment I met you. But, if you don't want to, or you're not ready, that's okay too. She's not going anywhere.
"It's not that I don't want to." You shake your head quickly. "But she's your mom. She's your mom."
She's my mom. Who I tell everything to. My mom knows that you're the best thing that ever happened to me. Britt, I made mistakes last night, but, my mom, she's not like them, okay? Never, ever again would I put us in a position like that. Because ignorant jackasses have no place in my life. They never have, you can ask my mother, we weed them out as they come, we always have.
"Okay." You find your head bobbing up and down. Slow. But sure. Entirely certain. She's offering to twine more of your lives together, and scary, scary, scary as it is, you feel her fingers between yours, and you know, you know. It's inevitable. Because you don't want this to end. Ever. And as it continues. As you go deeper, deeper in with her. The twining, it's going to keep happen.
Okay? She affirms, and you let go of her hands and again, turning your palms upward and curling the fingers as you pull them toward you. Want. You use that sign more than ever with her. You think. Because she asks you what you want. And she wants you to tell her honestly.
"I want to."
My two favorite people in the whole world. She smiles. Her crinkly smile. Her dimples, beaming. Her lips, curled up and perfect. And you lean across the table. You lean across and just, kiss her. Soft. Tender. Just. Full of all the love you have for her. Full of love so big it makes you feel like you're falling all the time. But love you can't let go of. She'll be thrilled. She's been waiting.
"She has?"
It's not every day some girl makes Santana Lopez all moony inside. She winks at you. Us Lopez women, we're fiercely independent. But, there's an exception to every rule. You're my exception, Brittany Pierce.
"You're so good with all these love words." You feel your face flame as you sit back down, and she just takes another sip of her coffee. Smiling. Still smiling. And her puffy eyes, maybe they don't look so puffy anymore when they crinkle. You'd hurt you both, but, you think, you think, you're really trying to fix it. You're really trying to be better inside, because she deserves the best. And in being so scared you aren't, you're only making things harder.
You make me feel them. She shrugs, and then she yawns, stretching her hands up over her head. You sign to her, asking if she's tired, and she shrugs a little again. I didn't sleep much last night.
"Neither did I. I'm-"
I forgive you. No more apologies, okay? We're working on it.
"Okay. Partnership. I can do this, with you."
I know you can. I have so much faith in you. She says those words, more words that haven't been said to you before, and your heart flutters. It flutters, because it's more than love words. So, so much more. But, I think maybe it'll be easier to do if we start with a nap.
"That's a really good idea."
You take the mugs, you put them in the sink, and she follows you to your bedroom. The bed is still unmade and rumpled. Your discarded clothes from last night are still all over. It's messy. It's not like you, but, it's okay. Mess, sometimes you need it. And you watch her. You watch Santana as she leans over and picks up your dress and puts it in the hamper. You watch as she folds your jeans and puts them back in the drawer. You watch, and you understand. You understand what she's saying without the words. You understand. Life isn't always neat and orderly, Brittany. Life isn't always the way you think it's going to go. But I'll help you. I'll help you clean up the mess, and I'll help you navigate through it. She doesn't say the words, but understand. You understand them as she smooths the bed sheets and slips out of her clothes, laying them over the chair. You understand them as she pulls the sweatshirt you'd slept in over her head and lies down on the bed. You understand them as you pull off your sweatpants and slide under the covers behind her wrapping her in your arms- because she's strong and brave and tough, but she still likes being your little spoon. You understand them as you tangle your bare legs with hers, and she traces letters on your hand because you can't see her lips. More than just hearts on skin. The letters that spell out what those hearts mean. Bigger than hearts. Bigger than fear. Bigger than anything you've ever known before.
"I love you too, Santana." You tell her, even though you think she might already be asleep. Her whole body soft and squishy in your arms. You breathe her in, all of her. And you touch your fingers to her throat. You feel her heartbeat. Strong. Sure. Reminding you that it'll be okay. And not pulling them away, you fall asleep. Just like that. Just with her close, close to you.
