Jack unlocked the door to their home, ushering Santana inside. "I'm fine, stop pushing me around." Santana hissed, dumping her jacket on the stairs and storming into the kitchen. The sight before her made her stop abruptly.
Contraception. Diet pills. Cigars. Empty, and near-empty bottles. Lighters. Letters. Receipts. Even the hastily sewn Rachel-Berry-Voodoo-Doll. Stacked on the table. But most unnerving of all these factors attacking Santana's senses were the two behind the table, standing as though they were the guards to a particularly unpleasant museum.
Santana's addictions were staring her in the face. "Hey, papi…" she tried. There was apause, then the screaming began, a mixture of Spanish and English abuse hurling through the air.
"You're out of control. You're going away from all this." Santana's dad finalised, waving a hand over the incriminating pile. "It's gone too far! Look at yourself. Who are you? What happened to the girl who was vice president of the celibacy club and co-captain of the Cheerios?"
"She grew up. I'm not leaving her… here. Not leaving here." She corrected.
"The rest of the summer. You're going to stay with your Aunt Mildred in Martha's Vineyard."
"She's fucking ancient! Just like everyone else on that microcosm."
"I'm sure she's got some stories to tell. Pack. You fly tomorrow."
Too exhausted to fight this ruling, Santana snatched her phone from the table and stormed into her bedroom, head throbbing.
No new messages.
"Screw being a good person for her." Santana said to no-one in particular. She started to pack angrily.
Santana's parents dropped her at the airport with a kiss and a promise to pick her up from the same place in three weeks time. Once again, she found herself alone and apprehensive in the airport. A sudden urge overcame her and with zombie-like precision she withdrew some savings, threw her plane ticket into the bin and approached the Departures desk.
"One one-way ticket to New York."
About three hours into the flight, she started to doubt herself. This self doubt began to crawl over her flesh and she struggled to escape into memories. She thought of the last time she'd made this flight.
"Santana, can we watch Spirited Away?" Brittany pleaded, scrolling through the film choices on the touch-screen that faced her seat.
"Britt, we've seen that movie plenty of times. Pick something else." Santana said absently, looking around the plane. Mr. Schue's wife had done them right by their tickets. They had the entire first-class section to themselves, screaming babies and angry foreigners barely audible through the thick red curtains sectioning the Glee club away from the outside world. Rachel and Kurt were writing into little notebooks, occasionally exchanging knowing smiles.
Finn was gazing at Rachel, and Quinn was gazing at Finn. Puck and Zizes were attempting to swindle the flight attendant out of some complimentary champagne. Mercedes and Tina were quietly watching their screens. Mike was sleeping, his leg twitching as if he was practicing dance routines in his dreams, and Artie seemed to be playing on an ancient Gameboy, his tounge lolling in concentration. Santana was astounded at how comfortable she had become among this bunch of misfits.
"Fine, we'll watch the movie." Santana refocused her attention on Brittany, who was doing puppy eyes. Within ten minutes of the film starting, she felt the blonde's head slipping onto hers. She instantly hooked her pinkie into Brittany, feeling the girl relax as Santana's head came to rest on top of her own, and she soon snored gently. Santana didn't know how long they were like that, but it was tranquil. As if they were the last two left on earth. And though it was morbid, she couldn't help but think if the plane were to crash, she wouldn't mind half as much if she could stay like this forever.
This memory sustained Santana throughout the sweaty uncomfortable business-class flight and soon she was gathering her luggage and leaving the airport. For the first time, it dawned on her she had nowhere to go. Shrugging, she decided to start at the beginning and head to the hotel that the New Directions stayed at for Nationals.
Wheeling her luggage behind her, she sat down at the bar in the hotel and ordered a Martini. A cold look made the vendor think twice about asking for ID and the drink was hastily brought to her. She was admiring the clear liquid, the bubbles that formed around the Olive, when a deep, seductive, and hauntingly familiar voice sounded behind her, warm breath on her neck.
"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world." Spinning around on the barstool, Santana met the eyes of Jesse St. James.