jtour: Hopelessness is, like, my middle name. Lol. I'll see what I can do as far as making amends. Many, many thanks for the review.

JJLives: Wow. So much insight, and so many questions that I can only fathom answering. "Believing you hate someone else is easier than accepting that you hate yourself." You wouldn't even have to worry about the smiley face being left as reply, because that single sentence would've sufficed. As always, I thank you for such wonderful remarks.

The-anon-girl: I can't either, my friend. I can't either.

mels2001: I'm taking the fact that you don't want to read this (but do) as a compliment. Lol. I've got a way of making sense of it all, and can only hope to fulfill all of your wishful thinking. Until next time, I thank you.

Cata (Guest): No, dear friend. Thank you.

4evamuzic: Ahh, man. I never want to put you through that kind of emotional ringer, but am always excited that the words can evoke so much emotion. (Don't worry, that doesn't make sense, either. Lol.) The past is important, and I mainly included that flashback because another reader requested it, but was thoroughly excited with what it added. Godspeed, my friend, and I'm always most grateful for your kind comments.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the show's characters.

Bernie and I have put off the weekly meeting until later this afternoon, what with Santana being under close "observation" after last week's "incident", as he's explained.

They wanted to revoke her visitation rights, but the old man insisted otherwise. Said that our conversations were a pivotal part of the process. The staff was hesitant to oblige. "We did reach an agreement, though," he continues, "and I must warn you that they've given Santana some medication to aid the process. So if she seems out of the ordinary, don't be alarmed."

"Isn't that a bit counterproductive?" I bitterly challenge.

"It's only to cut the edge," he gently says. "Make her less confrontational."

I sigh deeply, attempting to exhale the copious amounts of bullshit that today's already brought about. "Make her less 'Santana', you mean."

"Hey," Bernie coos, reaching from the passenger's seat and resting a hand atop my forearm. "I want you to be resilient, Brittany. Take these emotions and channel them into something great, okay?" I nod. "Give that pain and anguish a big ole' hug and say, 'Not today; not ever again.'"

Easier said than done. "Not today," I eventually repeat, if only to appease the guy. "Not ever again."

We pull into Shady Meadows soon enough, quickly running through the usual motions of checking in. Down one of the narrow corridors, Santana patiently awaits our arrival. One of the guards stands in tow alongside an orderly, chatting away.

In approaching, I immediately notice Santana's fingers. The areas not scabbed over are covered by thin strips of beige bandage wrap. Without thinking, I take the individual appendages into my own hands, gently thumbing over her injuries. "Tried sewing Princess Consuela back together," she mutters, giggling all the while. "Guess I didn't inherit Mom's side of the gene pool."

"Got your father's boobs, too," I respond, which sends her into a deeper fit. I'd be lighthearted as well if the newest medication's side effects weren't so obvious. Lax body. Absent expression. It's like she's drunk again, but able to form coherent sentences.

Bernie chimes in before I can wage any more internal war. Extending a hand to the glossy-eyed Latina, he says, "Name's Bernard, but you can call me Bernie."

"Any relation to Bernadette?" she offers, returning the gesture.

And when he shakes his head, Santana merely grunts and nods, wandering into the vacant room. We don't immediately follow, but linger about as Bernie asks of the rather muscular orderly, "How much is she taking?"

"Fifty milligrams," he answers.

"Christ," my partner admonishes, shaking his head. "That's enough to knock out a horse."

The orderly huffs, thumbing at a sleeve of his scrubs. "You'd think," he breathes, craning his neck as to peek inside at Santana, who twiddles her thumbs in waiting. "This one, though? Never seen anything like it."

"Her, you ass," I interject, fists balling themselves almost instinctively at the man's dig. "Like her."

Bernie, the ever peaceful soul, shoos the orderly away with a wave of his hand. Then it's just the two of us, standing alongside the posted guard. Two wrinkly hands meet the tops of my shoulders. "Not today," he mutters.

I take a deep breath and say, "Not ever again."

The standpoint of remaining tough in my efforts holds water for all of two seconds, as I realize just how little willpower I possess in regards to Santana. For instance, when Bernie the meeting by suggesting that we move backward through time, starting in the present and eventually winding up in our childhoods, I don't pipe up. Not even as Santana laughs uncontrollably at the idea. "Ass-backwards," she says in between fits. "How appropriate."

Thankfully, the maniacal giggling turns into wheezy, strangled coughs, thus silencing the girl altogether. I still remain glued in place, not budging to aid Bernie. Not coming to his defense. Maybe Eddie was right, I think. Maybe I am always standing by. Never proactive, only reactive. Always cowering to the intensity of my counterpart.

She could throw glass at my head and I'd probably apologize for the mess. I'd say, "But that's what love's about." That it means disregarding the Rule of Three and saying sorry, even if you're not. It's about swallowing what's left of your pride in hopes of validating another's.

Basically, loving Santana means forgetting to love yourself.

But Bernie's made it explicitly clear that such acts are forbidden. The premise of making me vow, "Not today." He doesn't get it, of course, but becoming a better human being means keeping promises, despite their difficulty. Separating myself from Susan's shadow is all about doing what she couldn't. What Santana tried her best in doing.

And I loved her for that, you know? She was so honestly vulnerable in the moments in which she had no control. Even during her greatest times of helplessness, Santana worked feverishly to right the wrongs of this world. Of her world, at least.

Bernie snaps me back into both reality and submission with the clearing of his throat. "So, Santana, would you say that you're enjoying your stay?"

"As much as a fox loves the hen house," she giggles.

"Are you learning anything?"

Again, she childishly laughs. "If you piss off enough people, they have to do what you say."

"They also help when treated civilly, with compassion and care."

"And then they shit on you," she deadpans, folding both arms across her chest. "Santana Lopez is no statue, guy."

"Of course not. You never stay in one place long enough," I can't help but murmur.

"I'm certainly not noteworthy enough, either."

"Glad we can finally agree," I grumble.

Santana chuckles and rubs her face hastily. Bernie again speaks about matters of nonsense, but I just sit and stare at the Latina. She's so spaced out. Loopy. A zombie, almost. It's a wonder she remembers her own name.

Has it been ill-conceived, thinking that a time out would solve all of our problems? That whisking Santana off to a remote location, forcing her to abstain, would somehow bring her back from the depths to which she's fallen?

Fixing her is impossible, I understand. But handing over the blueprint and tools doesn't seem to be helping much, either.

This is one leaky faucet that refuses to quit dripping.

I wait for Bernie to take the lead while Santana slouches back into her chair. Something about the entire scene feels phony, though. Too arbitrary for even us. We've had plenty of opportunities for talking. For sorting matters out. While they've only ever been brought about in times of crisis, we've rarely ever capitalized. Which begs the question: Why now? Why at all if we're destined to fall back into the same destructive pattern?

Regardless of inhibited rationale, Santana must be thinking the same. She has to, considering the fingers that massage her brow while Bernie speaks. While, in a highly professional manner, he explains all that the process of recovery entails. Yes, she sees this as another pointless means of reconciling our fragmented relationship, because the Latina dumbly interrupts with, "Listen, guy. We get it. Brittany and I don't need some book report or lecture on how badly we've fucked things up, because we're too busy, well, fucking things up."

Bernie forcefully smiles before offering, "Wouldn't you like to know where along the lines, all of this began, though?"

She adjusts in the chair, sitting atop two folded ankles as a cigarette is lit. "More of a 'why' girl, myself," she answers, puff of smoke trailing the hand that loosely gesticulates.

Undeterred, the elderly man says, "Then that's what we'll do. We'll get you some answers, Santana." Both of his eyes shift my way in asking, "Does that suffice for you? Will you settle for the 'why', Brittany?"

Speaking of whys, I can't tell you the reason behind my next statement. It very well could be the need for a fraction of control within the discussion, or merely a tactic to undermine Santana's arrogance. Either's possible. Small portions gathered from each are probably what bring me to say, "Not really. More of a 'how' girl, myself."

Bernie grins. Santana rolls her eyes.

"Brittany already knows how."

"And Santana already knows why."

"Yet here we are," she returns, attention not once diverting my way.

"And we can use what the both of you do understand," Bernie interrupts, "to pinpoint what you don't. To establish the 'what' of your situation." As moments pass, the air gradually becomes harder to breathe. Not on account of the nervousness that still courses through me, but due to the room's polluted haze. I grab both arms of my chair and force it to the left as our mediator asks, "Now, what do we consider to be the issue at hand?"

Again, Santana cackles in mock disbelief. "Besides the obvious?"

"Which is?"

I feel the tan thumb that protrudes from a balled fist and sarcastically teeters in my direction. Someone snickers when my middle finger just so happens to do the same, and I'll give you a hint as to who—not the grandpa.

But he does sigh heavily at our interaction. Like a man floating up shit's creek. He eventually finds a paddle, it would seem, because what next falls forth is, "You're both wrong, actually, as this little display would prove. Individual cogs can malfunction, but it's ultimately the machine that falters."

"And the early bird gets the worm," Santana mimics. "Get on with it."

"On with what?"

"WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU'RE REALLY TRYING TO SAY," she both quickly and harshly returns. Outside, I witness the posted security guard tense up. And he looks on the verge of intervening until my Latina counterpart inhales sharply, then coos, "Please."

How quickly she can turn is what baffles me most. I sit here in a state of bewilderment, unsure as to what we should accredit the sudden mood shifts. Santana was never this antagonistic in the beginning. Not even with Eddie, who'd mastered the art of grinding her gears to the point of being dulled and dysfunctional.

Where's the trigger to this loaded gun?

I think of last week's ride home. The grave news Bernie broke to me. It's still a tad difficult to fathom, but not entirely impossible. Different substances affect people differently, and maybe, just maybe, the once resilient Boobs McGhee has fallen victim to the disastrous yet frequented coping mechanisms of others.

My hands are not clean in this respect, I know, and it's most likely the only reason I extend a hand of understanding. "It was the drugs, I presume," I tremble in saying. "Santana was obviously covering something up, so she turned in the only seemingly reasonable direction. Questionable, sure, but in the heat of the moment, anything looks like a nail when all you've got's a hammer."

"Alcohol is hardly a drug," she almost laughs.

I glance over. "What were the others, then?"

Santana merely looks like a deer caught in the headlights before shrugging. "Don't make me sound so hopeless," she breathes, snapping back to. "And quit trying to make me look like the bad guy."

"You haven't given me much to work with," I respond, speaking directly to Santana for only the second or third time today.

She cranes her neck. "All of the signs were there, Brittany. You were just too—"

"Stupid and oblivious to pick up on them," I finish. "Yeah, I know."

She gnaws on her bottom lip. "I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were going to imply it."

We then come to a standstill, one in which neither of us dares to consider progressing. Santana's always been better with confrontation. At handling heated but necessary exchanges. I've always just stood in the back, waiting behind her wall until the problem was solved.

But now were face to face, and I'm not entirely sure of how to react.

Thankfully, she clears the dreaded silence by scolding, "Stop assuming that everyone thinks you're incompetent. You know a hell of a lot more than you're giving yourself credit for."

"Kind of the point, isn't it?" I mutter too hastily. Too breathlessly. "Maybe I don't want to know what's wrong with us. With you. Maybe I already know too much, and maybe it terrifies the absolute shit out of me."

Where an immediate response from Santana lacks, Bernie picks up. He crosses his legs and asks, "What about the honest truth frightens you, Brittany? What about the light is so daunting that you'd willingly subject yourself to the dark?"

I wasn't going to cry. It wasn't in the plan. The plan was to hold firm, to stand my ground. To show Santana that BSP meant business, and that I couldn't be swayed in her efforts.

Well, that plan's shot to hell. Because the wave of emotion finally comes crashing down, and I'm helpless in stopping it. The knot tightens in my chest. The lump grows in my windpipe, making it damn near impossible to swallow. A single tear breaks free.

And with a death grip administered to both arms of my chair, I somehow manage, "Because I've seen what happens when people have nowhere to turn. I've felt it. Hell, I even grew up with that bullshit." The words themselves grow angry. They revolt, choking me out. "Knowing things means realizing just how fragile everything else is, and most of that everything is all I've got left. Maybe I'm not ready to lose anything, anyone, else."

An eerie calmness settles in over the room, what with my sniffling and their silence. We all just sit around then, allowing the peaceful fog to wither away.

In this respect, Santana is the first to act. She shakes her head insistently and stands up. Bernie merely says, "We have twenty more minutes."

"No, we don't," she confusedly grunts, seemingly caught back up in the haze of calming drugs. "It's time for lunch."

His eyes cut to the doorway, where a black uniform still blocks anyone from entering or exiting. "I believe someone would argue otherwise."

It's too unbearable, watching her be given constant ultimatums. Forcing her muddled mind into making decisions. Not out of guilt, but more so from exhaustion, I say, "Go ahead, Santana. I know they're serving chocolate pudding today, and if you show up late, all of the good ones will be gone."

She doesn't thank me, but simply snorts at Bernie. He nods.

"Is that really how you feel?" Bernie asks on the car ride home. "That accepting Santana's condition means ultimately losing her in the end?"

I'm driving this go around, which makes it kind of difficult to ignore the guy. Instead, I settle for, "Basically."

"Basically or whole-heartedly, Brittany?"

"Basic-heartedly."

He palms the side of his neck, rubbing as though disgruntled. I don't address the agitation, partly because I couldn't give a shit of anyone else's concern regarding me and Santana. The confession was for her, and she reacted accordingly. She fled the scene. She took off in the opposite direction.

The girl undeniably prone to conflict did not fight back. She did not refute the admission of another girl who needed it more than anything in this world.

That alone says more than any words ever could.

We pull into the parking spot alongside Bernie's car. He doesn't move. Rather, the seat is reclined back as weathered eyes stare through the window and into a clear afternoon sky. A minute later, he asks, "You think there's anything up there?"

"Space dust and shit," I absently reply.

Surprisingly, instead of reprimanding foul language, Bernie chuckles. And it persists as Santana's did earlier, well to the point of dabbing his eyes with a sleeve. "Oy vey," he breathes. "Space dust and shit. You're a hoot, girl."

"And extremely tired," I groan, unamused.

"Basically tired, or whole-heartedly tired?" he playfully challenges, to which I do not answer. But to much avail, the guy's no dummy. He knows where the line exists and just how far over it he can tiptoe.

So Bernie hops out of the car as best a seventy-year-old man can, but dares to leave the door wide open. I suspect a final remark is to be made, and surely enough, disappointment does not follow. "Rest up, child," he says, lingering in the gap. "The path we're on's a long one, and I can assure that the weariness you feel now is only the tip of the iceberg."

"Got it," I snap, throwing the vehicle into drive.

He doesn't budge, though. Not before casually saying, "During your conversation from last week, I overheard Santana mention something about a party and what happened shortly after the fact. Care to enlighten me?"

My lips seal themselves in a millisecond. They staple shut, not daring to pry open without bloodshed. I don't tell him anything. Not about the fourteen excruciating months, and certainly not about the unbearable sense of guilt that's followed me every day after.

Rather than admit to either of these things or any of the underlying, unaddressed factors that still exist, I speed off into the night, leaving all of the unwanted memories behind.

Kind of weird, how the end of every day feels as though I've run a marathon. How drained not even an hour's worth of conversation can leave me.

I crash onto the couch, the threat of lidded eyes most prevalent. Fighting is an option. Choosing to stay awake and deal with reality. But there's always the noble defeat. Succumbing to the weight of overall weariness and allowing the eyes that have witnessed far too much their standby.

Option two, please, is the last coherent thought that runs through my mind.

I'm then out of body, hovering over a BSP clad in orange. She marches in tandem with others of the same outfit, connected to those in front and behind by iron bracelets. Shackled and moving at a snail's pace.

There's another room. One in which a thick pane of glass separates two chairs. A phone resides on either side. Santana waits in this room. Dressed in plain clothes, she patiently waits.

The blond and brunette are united via the space. Their conversation is one-sided, at best, as Santana graciously tries catching up with BSP. BSP is not listening. Instead, at the brief meeting's end, she viciously insists that Santana disappear. That the two never reconnect under such conditions.

And heed BSP's warning, she does. Because as the instances pile, as time progresses, Santana accepts her losing role in the fight. Wrinkles upon wrinkles present themselves, diminishing her will.

Santana distances herself per BSP's instruction. She lives with her parents throughout high school, cutting only an occasional glance in the hallways. Upon graduating, she accepts a cheerleading scholarship to a major university. She thrives and prospers, purely because BSP is out of the picture. Because Susan has not been her problem, and felt no need in leaving, and therefore returned with no Eddie.

Eventually, Santana finds love in the arms of another. Free of burden, her life becomes one of great importance. She is neither angry nor resentful; spiteful nor disappointed. There are no weights upon her chest. All because of a fateful twist in circumstance, a turning of the tables, Santana Lopez has gained the ultimate freedom—a life without BSP and all that she entails.

The Latina might occasionally dial the familiar number. Sit down and write a letter that she'll never send. Drive by the childhood home she once frequently snuck into to comfort her former best friend.

Santana doesn't do these things, though. And not because she's given up, but because BSP told her to do so, she's finally mastered the art of letting go.

A splash of cold water hits my face. It sends my body convulsing upward. "She should've let me take the blame," I say without thinking. Carey and Eddie stand in front, a dumbfounded look splayed across their features. "She should've let me take the blame."

"What are you talking about?" Carey asks, kneeling down, resting both hands atop my knees.

Breathless, I cannot formulate a response. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. A vivid one. Born from my subconscious. Realistically detailed to the point of bitch-slapping everything I've ever known.

"Because if I'd of let you take the blame that night at Karofsky's—" Shutter after shutter ripples through my body. I ignore their questions and damn near sprint into the bedroom, face burying deep into pillow. Spirit trying to regain composure. "—the blame for what you did—well, who'd be the real train wreck then?"

It takes hours for me to quit shivering. Carey's since left, as the gentle closing of our front door would have it. Footsteps then piddle across the hallway, and in moments, a silhouette forms in the contrast of light and dark. "You okay?" a quiet voice asks. I don't answer, and so it continues with, "How'd today go?"

"Oh, so we're speaking again?" I eventually manage.

"Maybe," the voice sighs, its owner's body leaning against the doorframe. "Or at least once you cut the melodramatic crap."

Adrenaline still on high, emotions still vamped from earlier, aggravation wins out. "I'm having a fucking time with you people," I grunt. "Since when has trying to hold it together become a crime? WHERE DO I GET OFF OF THIS FUCKING TRAIN?"

For whatever reason, Eddie begins snickering. He then ventures across the room and climbs into bed alongside me, pulling the covers taut. "Meeting went that well, huh?"

"How do you think?" I sheepishly mutter, the day finally catching back up as my voice hitches. "She walked away from me. I opened up and she just left."

"It's progress," the boy feebly offers, to which I turn my head and meet the darkened outline of his. Silence follows. It lingers until Eddie says, "I mean, at least she showed up in the first place."

I groan, "There's only so much room for optimism in one day."

"Then what do you want?"

A time machine. My old best friend. A popsicle. Anything, really. "I want to be able to talk and think about Santana without feeling the need to scream or cry."

A hand takes hold of mine. It squeezes. "I'm here," Eddie mutters into the surrounding darkness. "I'm listening."

Oh, what a monumental undertaking it is to be heard. To know that, regardless of what you say, the words will not do your situation justice. That sadness is both the lock and key to the door of recovery. Of coping. And you wouldn't have to bother with coping if you'd just been unafraid of speaking in the first place.

Instead of trying to recount the past hours or properly address what's been eating at me, the metaphorical finger points itself elsewhere. "Santana was hanging out with that Vanessa girl a lot. I'm even willing to bet—"

"No," he firmly interjects, fingers vice-gripping around my own. "As much as I hate to say it, and as much as I'd love another reason to hate Santana, not even she'd stoop that low."

"Who's to gauge what 'low' means anymore?" I openly complain. "Who's to say that, when given the chance, the worst won't happen?"

Nothing more than a second passes before Eddie murmurs, "Who's to say that it already hasn't? That the worst isn't yet to come because it already has?" I don't respond to this. And when my moping persists for the better part of another minute, the body next to mine shifts. "Listen, Brittany," he earnestly continues, turning slightly whereas to meet the side of my head. "You're hurting and I get that. But don't let that pain cloud your vision and drown out all the good that still exists."

"It's more difficult than that."

He grumbles to himself, and then aloud. "No, it's not," Eddie protests. "Because having spent a major portion of my life alone, I've learned to weed through the blank stares and false emotions that people often wear. To find the realism in a world filled with fallacy."

I don't even know what half of the words he often uses mean, but figure these call for rebuttal. "Then you should know empty Santana is. How she's being anything but upfront."

"That's the point. Her spirit is hollow, but it's yet to cave in. Her eyes are filled with deadened sadness, yet she still manages to look your way," he pleads. "Now, I don't know about you, but in the book of Eddie Lopez-Pierce, braving the storm matters. Searching for a light that's long gone out has to count for something."

I can't help but giggle at his urgency. How needy the kid sounds, especially when he's remained as stagnant as physically possible concerning our recent issues. It's refreshing. Which is probably why I laugh again and say, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you weren't all that upset with Santana."

Evidently, I've spoken too soon. "Oh, no. I still want to punch her in that stupid, stupid face," he deadpans. "And it really sucks."

"Because?"

Eddie sighs deeply this time around, chest heaving slowly but methodically in a very Santana-like cadence. "Because as much as I can't forgive her for what she's done," he hesitantly begins, "I'm still rooting for you two. Because you're Brittany and she's Santana, and regardless of what roadblocks life throws up, you always will be."

"And that's supposed to mean something?" I kid, to which he playfully nods. We both then lie around for a couple of minutes, backs fitting into the soothing curvature of mattress. It's relaxing. As the first yawn creeps up the back of my throat, though, I decide on relaying a bit of coarse information before sleep hinders my senses. "I'm going to meet up with her."

He turns onto his side, pulling the covers with. "You just did, dummy."

"The other her."

"Oooooh," he hums, allowing but a moment's pause. "You need backup? I can stay low; chop-block behind the knees. Jump on her back and scoop the eyeballs out."

We both snort in laughing at this. Feels nice, too, not having him contradict my decisions, but support it in his own Eddie-like way. Much like the simple olden days, when our biggest concerns revolved around drunken mothers and being gunned down by said mother's bald boyfriends. "I have a feeling that this one won't be much of a fight," I say.

"Please," Eddie returns, twisting a bundle of material around his wrist. "Since when have matters concerning Santana been anything but?"

The next evening, I pile into the car, intent on finding the snake before nerves win out. before I convince myself of how lost this cause is.

She's nowhere to be found. Not until I pull up just outside of a rundown hole-in-the-wall on the edge of town, where a leather jacket and blond hair glimmer against the moonlight. Vanessa must think me to be someone else, because after she abandons a group of lowly characters and taps on the car window, her face contorts. "Can't say I saw this one coming," she breathes. "Couldn't you have just been a cop?"

"Get in," I command. "We need to have a chat."

We don't speak on the trip to a more well-lit location. Another bar, but one where the odds of being mugged are significantly lessened. And once we're settled in, the first drink order underway, I say, "There are some questions that need answering, and I suspect that you're just the person for the job."

"What, are you a detective now?" Vanessa grumbles.

"No," I breathe. "Just extremely fucking pissed off." My eyes bear into hers, but the glare does not falter on either side. "Now, how often were you hanging around Santana, and what specifically were you getting her into?"

An eyebrow cocks my way, sarcastically beckoning that I continue. I don't. "What was I getting her caught up with?" she eventually retorts, choking back a laugh. "Not even. Santana always had the good ideas. I just tagged along for the ride."

"I don't believe that," I say.

"Of course you don't. Because your lovey-dovey girlfriend of for-fucking-ever isn't that type of person, is she?" Vanessa challenges, taking a swallow of her beverage. "Tell me, Brittany, just how well do you know her?"

Suddenly irritated, I return, "Well enough to know that you're full of shit."

To this, she chuckles knowingly. "Honey, who asked for whose help?"

"Fine," I grunt, slightly deflated by her correctness in the matter. "Then tell me why. Santana's never been this way. So why, all of a sudden, has the switch flipped?"

The girl retrieves a cardboard box from her front chest pocket, and lights a cigarette, exhaling a billow of smoke as she says, "No idea."

"Did something happen?" I plead.

"I don't know."

"Anything at all?"

"Don't know."

"You're not much help."

Again, Vanessa laughs to herself. "Only know as far as I can see," she says, shrugging. "And from what I could see, Santana wasn't much for talking. Not lately, at least."

At least Santana's been consistent. At least it's not just me that she's been guarded against. "What was she good for, then?" I insist.

"Shots," the girl quickly answers, biting her lip and smiling as if reminiscing over a fond memory. A scowl soon replaces the expression. "She'd take a few to the head, go sit in a corner, and start talking to herself. Argue with invisible people."

Nervous as to what gearing the anger toward herself could mean, I ask, "She didn't hit anyone, did she?"

Vanessa shakes her head. "Nah. If it wasn't the creepy corner shit, then Santana was off somewhere else. Crying, most likely, but never taking a swing at anyone."

"Crying about what?"

She shrugs. "Not a fucking clue." I begin rubbing my face with both palms, eventually leaning my forehead against the counter. It's absolutely frustrating, expecting answers but only receiving more questions. Chasing my tail. Eventually, after I've all but dozed off while propped against the bar, the girl to my right says in a sheepish manner, "I didn't realize that you guys had a kid. If I had, I would've quit hanging around her so much."

"Wouldn't change anything," I mumble into the polished wood, disregarding the ashamed tone in which she speaks.

"You're probably right. After all, once you're in that hole, it's damn hard to climb out," she says almost remorsefully. Like someone who was born and raised in that very hole. Like the hole is all that some people know. "Helps when you've got a ladder, though."

"Yeah, well, this one's on its last leg," I groan reflexively. Something that's becoming more of a habit these days, if anything. And though it sounds like a fact as opposed to a debatable proposition, I still ask, "I fucked her up pretty badly, didn't I?"

Thus ensues the deep-seeded sigh, one in which Vanessa leans back, forward, and finally hunches over. "Never before have I witnessed someone resemble a dying dog so accurately," she says, taking a drag from her cigarette. "It was like she knew something was wrong, but couldn't figure out exactly what it was." A small glass of clear liquid appears from the bartender's hand, and before finishing her statement, the other blond takes the vile in one swig. She burps. "So yeah, I'd say you did."

At this point, Vanessa's attention shifts as she wanders away from the counter. And when she turns around a last time, I call out, "Santana gets a little handsy when she drinks. Did she ever, uh—you know?"

"I wish," she calls back, arm hanging over the shoulder of some guy. "But hell, who knows?!" They twirl around, both giggling. "If she'd ever quit worrying about your fucked up ass, the rest of us might actually stand a chance."

Vanessa then smirks and nods as though she's uncovered a piece of the puzzle that's been under my nose all along.

And I'd be damned if I didn't too.

Driving back to Lima Heights, I give a great deal of thought as to what lessons the day's interactions have brought forth. Earlier, with Santana, when she was broken from a foggy stupor by what seemed to be fear. Of what, I'm still uncertain. The discussion with Bernie, who, despite age and experience, still came across as hopeful. Then with Eddie, who is still so terribly bitter, but has somehow managed to find light in a situation seemingly destined for eternal darkness. And lastly, there was Vanessa, whose insight told me of things far greater than Santana and myself. That people can still surprise you.

It's maddening, using secondary sources as a means of finding resolve. Attempting to decipher one of Poe's texts by staring at a Van Gogh piece, more or less. But I'm well aware of our time's coming. That, sooner rather than later, the veil will be lifted. Santana and I will be forced to meet the other's gaze and divulge our innermost secrets. The things that keep us awake at night, simply because we're too stubborn and afraid of what the words could mean to speak them aloud.

The time will come in which both of us overcome that fear. One day, we'll be like the Eddies, Bernies, and Vanessas of this world. Youthful in spirit, optimistic despite experience, and able of receiving redemption. Only time will grant such pardons.

The time is upon us, I'm certain.

Maybe not one for instant reconciliation, but the time in which all other options have been exhausted.

The time is now.

BSP knows that this time, too, very well could be the end of her and Santana's ropes.

But she isn't going down without a fight.

She's accepting the things that could've, would've, and should've happened. That, if Santana had chosen differently on that night at Karofsky's, our lives would not be as they are today. Both the bad and good aspects would be lost in time.

Basically, she's keeping hope alive, if only for a little while longer.

She's tying a knot in this rope.

And God, oh God, is she hanging on for dear life.