Author's Note: I'm a tad bit drunk, but have split this chapter into two parts. Replies will be included in the next. (If I make it that far.) Oh, and the song lyric is from that of a Secondhand Serenade song.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the show's characters.
"I think it's time," I mention one Thursday night, as Eddie tosses his duffel bag from the most recent road trip into a corner of the den. He ignores me, maneuvering his wheelchair in front of the television. "I think it's time," I repeat.
He huffs, not looking my way. "Time-for-what-Brittany?" the boy then says, managing to sound like the world's most facetious robot.
"Tomorrow," I say.
A little head falls back, dangling as groan after groan breaks free. "I don't have a valuable life lesson for every time you grow nervous," he sighs with closed eyes. "Every once in a while, you have to figure things out for yourself."
"Not what I meant."
One of his lids peels open. "Surely, you didn't—" but he's laughing too manically to finish the statement.
"I'm serious, Eddie," I try reprimanding. "You can't hold a grudge forever."
"Oh, but I can," he singsongs.
"Knock it off, will you? We've made our amends, and now it's time for yours."
Eddie grimaces, leaning up only to shoot me the most resentful of looks. "Give me one reason," he slyly barks, cocking his head to the side. "Ignore every encouraging comment I've made up until now, and tell me why, exactly, you keep showing up to that place week after week."
There are twelve thousand reasons for visiting Santana—many of which cannot be explained so easily—but none of them would make sense enough to sway his opinion. That's the trouble with appealing to an analytical mind when you're running on the fumes of an emotional arsenal. So instead of sugarcoating anything or vying for a spot on the mountaintop in which I am most unwelcome, weariness from fighting the never-ending losing battle with his stubborn self wins out. All I return with is, "Why wouldn't I?"
It's a moment or two after I've marched off to the bedroom and slammed the door that the familiar sound of metal scraping against metal follows. An aluminum stick manages the barrier open, and Eddie's face reappears around the corner as he cranes his neck. I should meet him halfway, spare the boy from exerting any more energy, but I don't.
He eventually concedes, crossing both arms at the struggle's end. A witty retort is bound to follow; I can feel it. But just as everything I've come to expect, Eddie acts in an entirely opposite fashion. He presses both lips together forcefully, exhales brisk puffs of air, and settles for a solid eye-roll.
And when all other displays of pure annoyance are exhausted, he leans back, cutting one last look to the ceiling, and mutters, "When do we leave?"
Getting through security is a tad more difficult with a witty, dry-humored boy who finds it absolutely hysterical to act as suspicious as possible when uncalled for, but we manage. We manage well until reaching the room I've come to know as "The Closet," considering how tight a fit it employs. Again, though, we manage.
After quickly surveying the area, Eddie sighs before pointing. "Wheel me to the back corner," he grunts. "Not ready for eye contact just yet."
I comply without resistance, and we eventually settle into our respective resting places. Santana arrives minutes later, eyes widening at the sight before she ducks out. Bernie waves a hand, insisting that I follow.
She paces like a madwoman. Back and forth, back and forth, feet burning holes into the checkerboard tile. I wait, allowing the anxiety to subside. It doesn't. Breathless and gnawing on nonexistent nails, Santana soon mumbles, "Why'd you bring him?" More nibbling. A stiff head shake. "I wish you would've told me beforehand."
"Well, it's not exactly like I could've texted you," I breathe. "Besides, you were practically begging to see him a couple of weeks back. Did I miss the memo or something?"
An agitated hand darts through her hair, slicking it back. "I really wish you would've told me," she repeats; this time, more quietly.
There's an obvious fear in her demeanor. Of what, I'm not sure. But Santana only ever goes into hermit-mode when she's at her wit's end, and I'm almost positive that's where we've crash landed. Hello, Houston? Yeah, I'd say we have a slight problem.
We have so much more of the story to tell. So many details to nitpick and overanalyze and hash out. And quite frankly, lugging Eddie's grumpy ass out here was no small feat. I'll be damned if we don't sit and speak like civil human beings, if only for two minutes.
Maybe it's annoyance. Maybe it's eagerness to see my two loves in the same vicinity, even if they don't acknowledge the other. At this point, the only thing that matters is the instinct that kicks in. All that counts for anything is the hand that takes hold of her wrist, forcefully pulls Santana in tow, and shoves her by the shoulders into one of the chairs. Following a boisterous clang of surface scratching against surface, I look to Bernie and say, "Proceed."
Bernie's mouth hangs agape, shell-shocked. Snickering sounds from behind us, and I've evidently mastered the Lopez death glare, because Eddie kills the racket just as soon as my head whips around.
A quiet moment passes in which everyone sits with their tails between their legs, but our moderator gets the ball rolling with a jiggle of his lower neck fat and click of the recorder. "Last week, we were just getting into the thick of things went terribly wrong." He flutters his hand, opening up the floor. "Santana, if you will."
Nimble fingers intertwine with themselves. "Ninth grade was a weird year for everyone," she begins explaining. "Balancing glee and Cheerios took up most of Britt's and my time."
Bernie nods as he scribbles on a legal pad. "Busy schedules must've kept you apart quite often."
"Not necessarily," Santana dismisses. "No, they wouldn't allow us to take every class together, but I found other ways of keeping eyes on B. Her teachers, for instance, would give me weekly updates as to how she was doing. If she struggled, we studied at my house. Hours, sometimes, until it clicked."
"So you've always valued your studies?"
Santana shrugs. "I just figured that if we had any chance of getting out of that miserable town, it would be through college. It's anyone's dream," she continues. "Getting away."
I think of the nights spent at our kitchen table, not arguing about financial instability, but pouring over Eddie's homework. He's not as dumb as I was—far from it, actually—but Santana kept on his ass. He'd complain, but she wouldn't let up. Not until he'd perfected each assignment three times over.
Reflecting on those small instances, it's easy to tell that love, no matter how tough, existed between the two. Time had caught up with us, but the dream lived on in Santana's head. And she was willing to share that dream. The Latina still had plans of whisking us both away, and she wasn't about to leave him out in the cold.
Not like she might've once done.
"First year of high school's an awfully early time to begin preparing for the future," Bernie points out.
She faintly smiles, fingers not once budging from their seal. "Everything was moving far too rapidly, it felt, and I needed to get us ahead."
"In what respects?"
"Socially, financially, in school, at home," she absently lists. Her face scrunches. "Romantically."
If there was a glass of water sitting in front of me, I'd take a swig and spit it out, just for dramatic effect. "I uh—" Can't formulate the words to properly convey my embarrassment. "I think we can omit that part of the narrative."
"Oh, so now we're sparing the gory details?" Santana offers, softly chuckling. To Bernie, she continues explaining, "Brittany and I matured far more quickly than we probably should've."
Still flabbergasted, I chime in with, "Santana."
"She kissed me for the first time one day after cheerios practice."
"Santana."
"Naturally, I did nothing to resist."
"We have company."
Feeding off of my chagrin and utter aversion to openly discussing such personal matters, she includes, "No date, no flowers, no wooing. Nothing. The next few hours followed in like fashion." She then sighs, smiling fondly to herself before finishing with, "It was like a dream come true."
Freshman Year
Brittany had only ever kissed her once before.
It came earlier in the year, after Cheerios practice, when both of them were tired and sweaty and utterly disgusting on all fronts. Santana was in the locker room shower, throwing complaints about Sue every which way, just as she'd always done, when Brittany snuck in silently. She then grabbed the Latina by both shoulders, turned her around, planted the sweetest, most sensual kiss to the girl's mouth, and said, "Please stop talking."
That was both the beginning and end of their intimate relationship, as it would later seem to Santana. What struck her as odd, though, was how unexpectedly satisfying the instance had been. Even more so, what haunted the girl most was how willing and ready she'd be should lightning ever strike the same spot twice.
. . .
The next instance occurred weeks later, when Brittany and Santana were gathered at the Lopez house for their tri-weekly, damn dear daily, sleepover.
Santana lay strewn across the bed, soaking in nimble fingers that toyed with her hair from the girl sitting cross-legged at her right. A smooth palm then cautiously danced its way across the topmost expanse of her torso, extending individual care to each collarbone. The Latina sighed and closed her eyes, not only reveling in comfort, but fighting like hell to keep her body at bay.
She tried thinking of the things that boys might. Dead mailmen. Beast in a bikini. Anything to steer her mind away from the path it was dangerously wandering down.
"What do you think about when you just lay there?" Brittany asked, disrupting her train of nervous internal rambling.
"Stuff," Santana mumbled in return, caught between a daze and acute awareness.
"What kind of stuff?"
She sighed, regretting each and every question her best friend posed that she could not answer. "I don't know, B. Just stuff."
Brittany seemed deflated after that, and Santana couldn't help but think that she'd answered incorrectly a question that seemingly had no fixed response. In hopes of abetting this newly broken spirit, she asked, "What do you think about when you just sit there?"
"Stuff, too, I guess," the blonde answered.
It was safe to say that Santana wanted to feel comforted by the shared mindset. All the same, though, she could not shy away from the fact that Brittany Susan Pierce, unicorn extraordinaire, did not think on such terms. Her thoughts were equally rare and unique, and were a light that should not have been diminished in the haven of her best friend's home. This was their refuge, their sanctuary, and Santana was to be damned if she allowed it to become the castle walls that guarded the princess.
Her princess.
Brittany bought into that concept, right?
Fairy tales and what not? Happy endings for all?
She hoped so, at least.
The pad of a finger tickled the underside of Santana's jaw, and she flinched, chuckling at the disturbance. Brittany did, too, using the same appendage to circle her best friend's face, skirting over both eyelids and coaxing them shut.
Every intimate encounter begins with a single touch, she recalled from an eccentric substitute they'd once had. This was definitely affectionate, was it not? Regardless, it was an overwhelming feeling, one that could've brought Santana to her knees had she not been lying down. Never before had she seen the world through such a vacuum. Never before had she experienced such heightened emotions, and those were found in the simplest of rooms, in a simple home, on one very simple Lily Street.
This was different, and different was good. Different from being with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys. She experienced the sensation of, at the risk of sounding too cliché, being felt as opposed to being touched. Like the open ear she'd of killed to have listen, or the shoulder she could have only wished to lean on, Brittany had this way of tuning into wavelengths that the Latina hadn't realized she was putting off.
The blood that pumped through her veins for another girl was tainted, though, as her abuela often preached. Maybe that's what terrified Santana. Then again, she'd always secretly understood that when push came to shove, if she was asked to choose between Brittany and the naysayers, her best friend would win out, hands down.
That rationale, that need to be in the presence of her closest friend, was what compelled Santana to mumble, "Can I ask you a question, B?"
"You just did," the blonde responded, playfully nudging her from across the way.
She chuckled, propping her head up on a hand, craning her neck as to make direct eye contact. The moment withered away in milliseconds, silence once again settling in. "Do you think there's a place in heaven for people like me?" she asked, fighting like hell to move past the abuela's voice that boomed in her head. "I'm not a particularly nice person, but I'd like to think that there's room for me wherever you're going."
Santana didn't realize that she'd started crying, not until Brittany's hand lifted to brush a tear away from her cheek. "I think that you get mixed up sometimes," the blonde cooed in her ever gentle way of speaking. "I think that your head becomes a mess of exes and ohs. Like a difficult math problem." A force then lifted Santana's head, bringing it directly on top of her best friend's lap. Nimble fingers ran through her hair. "But I also think that you give what you can, and sometimes that counts for a lot more than we think."
"Is your best ever really good enough, though?"
"Maybe not," Brittany sighed, taking on a much darker image that harshly contradicted her predominantly enlightened nature. "What matters to one person may not be good enough for another, and the same goes both ways. Every once in a blue moon, though, you find someone who matters to you, and in turn, you're enough for them; if that even makes sense."
Perfect clarity, Santana thought. She didn't dare mention the possibility of them being those people for each other, but the slight grin that formed on Brittany's face moments after looking away said that they were thinking the same. And then the subtle gesture dissipated as a flicker of realization flashed within her best friend's eyes, the same eyes that drew closer to the Latina's own.
Before either of them were fully aware, their lips were sealed at an odd angle, threatening to never break the hold. Brittany leaned up in the slightest, and Santana followed. She followed even as her headrest disappeared, and the shadow of a body hovering her own danced in the moonlight.
They were stretched out against the other, bodies molding together as though they could become one in an instant. Brittany did not try to conceal her efforts. The fingers that tickled their way underneath Santana's loosely fitting t-shirt were all but subtle, and as the kisses began to grow deeper, the girl nestled on bottom toyed with the idea of full disclosure. She multi-tasked, losing herself in the passion that engulfed their pair, and somehow managed to weigh a multitude of options in the heat of the moment.
It wasn't much longer before those options and their weight hit Santana like a ton of bricks.
They were not doing this out of necessity, nor was it an act bred out of spite. Instead, like weeks prior, they were trying to shut the other up. In some odd way, they knew that their separate mouths would soon formulate words, and those words would be enough to talk themselves out of what felt more right than anything. Essentially, given a moment's hesitation, they would deny themselves the luxury of fate.
But Santana knew something deeper. The twist in her gut and flutter of her heart said that she'd been wanting this, this with Brittany, without ever really knowing. The dependency was foreign, one that she could not fully comprehend. She was, in essence, chugging saltwater in hopes of staying hydrated.
Taken aback by the abrupt nature of her revelation, the Latina broke away. She gazed up momentarily, soaking in a sea of blue, and believed that the image that lay before her was picturesque. She began to have faith in what Brittany said about heaven, considering that this was the closest she'd ever come. "Why'd you—" her best friend began to ask.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" the brunette interrupted. "In every way imaginable. The kind of beautiful that people write poetry or sing sad songs about."
It was meant to be a compliment, though the words never came out just right. Brittany gushed, though. And it wasn't like her to be flattered so easily, either, but something about Santana's tone—a sincerity she rarely exuberated—filled her cheeks with a rosy hue. "You're no garbage face, either."
This was how they communicated. Wholeheartedly, but in a roundabout way. Without commitment but with total conviction, a means of salvaging their hearts should the feelings not be of a two-way street. It was easier this way. Playing off a charade of nonchalance was far simpler than making oneself fully susceptible to the dark that came with love's light.
But Santana knew that she was peeking over the cliff's edge in making such a bold declaration. Would Brittany be the one to push her, or would she be the arms that caught her before plummeting into the earth? The question could not be promptly answered on account of each individual synapse the blonde's touch fired off throughout the Latina's body.
As Brittany stared down, she seemed almost hesitant. "Just so you know, I'm not really sure of how this wor—"
"We'll figure it out," her best friend hurriedly assured. "Feel it out, rather."
They both giggled.
And then time stood still as they waited, daring the other to flinch. Santana found the courage from somewhere deep within herself to lift a hand. Her right, the less dominant appendage, skirted along the side of Brittany's neck. The uncertainty suddenly no longer mattered. Santana had already given her affirmation. What they had, whatever it was, was valid enough.
They were innocent. Newborns, with bones not yet made brittle by tragedy. They were capable of loving and being loved, without condition and without proper cause.
In understanding this as fact, they both smiled briefly, and one after the other, they nodded their approval.
. . .
Rain pelted the glass in a way that could've lulled them both to sleep. Soothed to the core, they still fought the urge, wanting the moment to last forever.
Curled up in nothing more than a single bed sheet, the two girls sat atop the bedroom window's seat. Brittany's head lay draped across Santana's slightly angled chest, dilated pupils staring into the storm. Both were too weary for conversation. Not only did their physical bodies lack the energy to move a single inch, but the experience had properly drained their emotional banks.
That's what happened when you spoke through actions; the physical exhaust. Listening through equal action is what depleted your spirit, but in the best way possible.
"Tell me a secret," Brittany eventually hummed into her chest.
Santana mulled the request over, no withheld information making its way to the forefront of her mind. They didn't' keep secrets; that was their thing. The older one, however, might have had a spot or two of news that she simply hadn't brought up. It was never to betray her best friend, though, but to protect them both from what the small tidbit would bring about.
The talks, the stares.
But the way Brittany hugged tightly around her stomach gave the girl courage. Simple gestures like this were always doing that, filling Santana with a strength that she never could've reached on her own. And if there was any way of them working out, as the Latina had secretly hoped, then one of them was going to have to be strong.
I can do that, she thought. If one of us must carry the load, then why not the girl who's spent her entire life on the bottom of the pyramid?
She inhaled sharply, Brittany's head lifting with the breath, and muttered, "I could really love you, I think."
The blonde squeezed tighter around her counterpart's midsection, and the girl could feel a smirk form against her skin. "Could?"
Santana finally exhaled the long puff of oxygen that she hadn't remembered holding. Again, with the roundabout speak, Brittany had affirmed the seemingly undeniable. Santana wasn't in the business of being too hopeful, though, because optimism often led to disappointment. And when it came to Brittany, she certainly wasn't in the business of permitting such wretched things to occur. So instead of answering directly with an "I do", "Always have", or mere "Yes", she splurged for something far more complex and not so easily decipherable. "I think you could break my heart, too, if you wanted to."
"Is that even possible?" Brittany mumbled against her. "And even if it was, would you allow me, the world's foremost expert in the field of Santana Lopez, to break your heart?"
Santana merely chuckled to herself, placed a kiss atop her best friend's head, and softly mumbled, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
What happened afterward holds weight that's vividly expressed through Santana's features. The next morning, after the haze of ecstasy had long since dissipated, she was overcome with worry of others finding out about what we'd done.
I was sworn to secrecy. My clueless self couldn't quite pinpoint the source of her dismay, but I complied on account of the sadness that resided within her eyes.
It was a sadness that would never fully disappear.
"We went through the motions after that," she solemnly admits. "School, glee, cheer. I even dated Puck for all of a minute, but eventually dumped his low-credit-score-having ass."
Bernie, who's been listening intently and without judgment, jots something else down on his notepad. He chews on the end of his pen, mulls the information over, and then suggests, "In times of uncertainty, seeking out a place of sanctuary is common. Now, you either found that refuge in Brittany, or, as you've mentioned, in singing and dancing."
An ache settles into my chest upon witnessing Santana's immediate reaction. The way a mist instantly forms over her eyeballs. The heartbreaking manner in which her bottom lip juts out as it trembles. "A little bit of all three, I guess?" she croaks, attempting but failing to swallow. "I wasn't ready for everyone to know the truth, but I also felt so fucking guilty for putting Brittany through that."
"For putting her through what, Santana?" he encouragingly coos.
This time, she manages to choke down the throat-sized knot. "Not knowing?" Santana again says, phrasing the statement as more of a question. As though she's looking for permission to say the words aloud. "I mean, I spent a great deal of time looking after her, but never said why. There I was, trying to give her a sense of certainty and understanding that Susan refused to, but I was too damn cowardly to further explain how I felt. It absolutely killed me, thinking that Brittany didn't know where she stood with me."
"But I did," I try consoling. "Thought I did, at least."
Again, her head shakes ever so softly. Fingers peck at the bags under her eyes, sopping up individual tears. "It took me forever to tell you, much too long, and showing you took even longer." She hiccups. "I tried doing so through song, but even that betrayed me. Our middle ground was no longer easy to navigate, and I felt like a damn fool for not being able to sing the words that were just too hard to say."
"And now?" Bernie asks excitedly, seemingly on the metaphorical edge of his seat. "Is there any particular lyric that stands out?"
In an instant, every fathomable emotion is clearly splayed across Santana's face. Fear, anguish, ecstasy. She takes a moment to pinpoint exactly where on the spectrum she lies, and even seems to be dictating which feeling is most suitable for expressing. Thinking well beyond a scenario's limits has always been her strongest suit, but now, even that strength betrays her.
Eventually, though, in very Santana-like fashion, she powers through the opposition. On the other side, she emerges, quite possibly battered and beaten into submission, but still standing. My ears remain wide open, not so much listening for the answer that's bound to fall forth as cryptically as ever, but for the small glimmer of hope in her hesitation. Just say it, Santana, I think. Say what you don't mean to say, so that I can understand what you do.
What comes next catches me totally off guard. It makes me ponder and question and hate myself for ever wanting clear-cut answers. At the same time, it serves as validation. Of what, I'm not sure, though it fills me with the same hope as when she first agreed to open up about our past.
Because when Santana mutters, "Yeah, there is," I'm grateful that we can still connect on a level held in such divinity by the both of us. When the whites of her eyes lift to meet mine, terror penetrates me to the core. Say what you don't mean to say, so that I can understand what you do.
She doesn't. Instead, the frail mouth that's spoken too many harsh words falls into an almost entranced reserve. The lips that once formulated insults that cut like knives settle into themselves, keen on committing no physical harm. And the eyes, those eyes, that once held fire scalding enough to melt even the iciest of human spirits prospers as nothing more than a flicker. There's a spark, and it carries the comfort that a few lone embers might to a person escaping the bitter cold.
Maybe we really are growing up. Because this time, I don't have to break out the microscope to dissect what she's saying.
Some words are better off left unsaid, and others carry more weight when sung. Santana's always been a champion of both. Now, though, her impenetrable yet fragile voice is enough. It is and always will be enough, I continue thinking as she says in the tone of someone confessing their deepest, darkest secrets:
"I may have failed, but I have loved you from the start."
A tremendous weight lifts from the conversation, though it simultaneously manages to reappear at full capacity. My air supply runs thin. Every fiber of my being screams to just kiss the girl. Instinct insists that I reach across the two foot expanse, take her sunken face into my healing hands, and kiss away every ounce of insecurity or doubt that's ever existed.
But that wouldn't make much sense, now would it?
Eddie said that it was my responsibility to figure out where Santana and I stand. He implied that sometimes finding your way via any other medium except your own mind and heart is as criminal an act as any. Now, as I sit almost short of breath, matters are clearer than they've ever been. And trying to escape the fact that's presented itself seems detestable, too.
If ever I have equally loved Santana for any reason other than this—the way she can wake my body and alert my senses in even the most disconcerting of circumstances—then it has been in vain. Her confessions are not to be treated as bargaining chips. Our mutual vulnerability is not to be viewed lightly.
We're Santana and Brittany, and we matter deeply, and we count for a lot of things, and more often than not, we're utterly blind to just how important we've been for each other.
Blaming the past doesn't help, but rather knowing that who we were plays just as huge a role in who we are as anything does. If only I could convey this concept in a manner that she'd be willing to accept. "I've never been the brightest bulb in the Crayon box," I say to Bernie, "but Santana was always telling me otherwise. She was always trying to convince me of things, and most of the time, those things had to do with viewing myself as a better person.
"Now, I've never told anyone this, but being in good company was all I ever needed to feel on top of the world. Instead of just avoiding where I often fell short, Santana would elevate the moments in which I exceled. She'll deny it, but she was important long before I came into the picture, and will continue being so long after I'm gone." I take a deep breath, recollecting myself in efforts of not passing out. "Because being a person of great value has never been about anything other than being unashamedly genuine. Yeah, she could be an asshole, and maybe she did care for me from the very beginning," I continue, "but the moments in which she let that guard down were her finest."
As I've suggested, the Latina shakes her head. Subtly, of course, but in the same way that she's always done when trying to believe anything but the obvious. "That's great and all, B," she mutters, "but some things aren't so easily overlooked."
"Like what, Santana?"
Her eyes harrow in just before she says, "Like the fact that everything would've been so much easier if I wasn't so petrified by consequence. We would've had more time to just be us if my actions weren't dictated by the opinions of a 'them'."
She lived deeply in fear for the longest time, up until Finn thought it to be a swell enough idea to expose her to the world. After that, her apprehension still existed, though there was a certain ease about her. Relief, I assumed. It was never as big an issue with me, and I still sometimes can't quite wrap my head around the idea. Or why she could still feel so guilty years later. "What does it matter now, though?" I ask, avoiding the singular intricacies of her ill will.
"Choices, Brittany," she breathes. "I never chose to be one way or the other, but I did willingly live in darkness for the longest time. You did, too, simply because you couldn't bear to see me carry on such a way." She sighs. "Who knows how different we'd be, how much better off all three of us would be, if I'd just been openly honest from the get go?"
I've always heard about little decisions being the small splotches of paint that formulate a much larger masterpiece. That what we do in the quiet moments are the building blocks for how boisterous or timid the ultimate voices of our lives will be. Then again, I can't quite imagine us being much different.
I mean, yeah, living in silence for any period of time takes a toll. I'd considered the nights we'd avoid going out as small blessings, though. Listening to Santana speak suggests she reveled less in the alone time we were frequently allotted than she did hoisting a barrier in between us and the world. There's no proper reaction to what she's proposing. Even more so, twenty-twenty vision into the past still does nothing to account for the here and now.
The fabrics are already woven. There are wrinkles, sure, but even the Mona Lisa looks hideous to the occasional uncultured passerby.
Next, I offer all that I can. "You said that you loved me from the very start, and that your devotion ran as deep as the stillest waters, correct?"
She nods.
Suddenly, I hit a major roadblock. Part of me wants to lead her into my train of thought, and allow her to reach the conclusion herself. Another part of me wants to scream the obvious from the rooftop of this building. Instead of entertaining either part, I find a hazy middle ground that offers enough, but not too much, should she begin to pull away.
"There's never been anything wrong with loving another person. You don't get a say in the matter when it comes to falling. You just do," I preach not to the Latina, but to our older counterpart. Hazy middle ground. "Back before being ourselves was ever okay in her eyes, Santana still managed to overcome all internal anguish and keep by my side. It wasn't much longer until I realized that she, a girl, just so happened to be my person."
"Yeah, well, I wish somebody would have told me that sooner," she grunts, "before I put us both through hell."
Why doesn't she get it? Is this small window into the olden days so blurry that not even we, those who erected it, can see through? Aggravated, I say, "It was never like that, Santana. I saw loving you as a privilege and not a burden. You were afraid of the politics, but your fear never changed the way I felt." Her expression softens from steel as I quietly finish with, "If anything, it only made me want to cherish what we had all the more."
"Even if it meant constantly hiding?" she brokenly challenges.
I smile. I grin the toothiest of grins, and even throw in a wink for good measure. And just as Santana's face twists into a horrendous state of confusion, I say, "You seem to be forgetting who the playground hide n' seek champion was for all of those years."
This isn't a stalemate; no, it's the wind in the road. We take a brief moment, soak in the lone ray of sunlight that creeps in through the room's window, and watch as dust particles dance along the sill. Calmness washes over my limbs. It feels glorious, being openly honest, regardless of the hurtful truth that have and undoubtedly will continue to fall forth.
They say that all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage to accomplish anything. But sometimes, that twenty seconds can be utilized in a far more effective way—to reminisce, to appreciate, and like right now, welcome once lost feelings like an old friend.
The air is clearer. Easier to breathe. I inhale, allowing the freshness of spirit to fill my lungs.
Bernie sighs lightly, signaling the restart of our conversation, or the transition into our next phase. Santana and I simultaneously brace, well aware of all that followed. Deception, heartache, and ultimate loss of self. "You were eventually able to come out, as it would seem," he breathes, "and I'm assuming that it was only the beginning of a long road?"
"Yes, but not entirely in the sense that you're thinking," Santana agrees, nodding. "At that point, it wasn't so much about being a lesbian as it was about managing a relationship with Brittany. As I said, I loved her dearly, but if the feelings were reciprocated was still a bit unclear."
"Now you know," I say.
"Now, yes," she again agrees, "but back then was a different story. You were constantly evolving, B; growing and understanding and becoming a different character by the day. I struggled to keep up."
The older man asks in what ways Santana could've possibly felt "keeping up" to be unmanageable, angling his head to the voice recorder as to be heard.
She smiles. "When you find a music that's specifically made for your ears, you feel somewhat protective of it, right? Like, you don't anyone else to hear the grace that's been bestowed upon you?" He nods. "But the tempo slows and speeds up, and it confuses the absolute hell out of you."
"But you keep listening," Bernie adds, smiling at their inquisitive banter.
"But you keep listening," Santana repeats, winking ever so gently. "And I did, selfishly so. I fought on Brittany's behalf as frequently as possible, tried shielding her from anything that would disrupt her harmonious tune, and kept my ears open all the while, regardless of the sometimes harsh highs and lows."
"Those extremes involving scenarios well beyond your reach, I gather."
Instead of winking or pointing, of signifying that the nail's been hit on its head, the Latina simply stares. At the ground, more precisely, eyes wide as they inspect the floor and what reflections it may offer. Her lips rest calmly in place. No feverish chewing ensues. Her breathing steadies. Santana seems to be in a momentary state of serenity.
No sooner than my thought finishes does she come back to. With more lumpy swallowing, I'm afraid. She shakes it away, as though the sadness is a bug that's taken refuge on her head. "Anyway, we uh—we finished freshman year, and there was nothing particularly special about being a sophomore, either."
"Just sweet lady kisses, nights raiding her fridge, and marathons of Sweet Valley High," I note.
"Of course," she says, forcing a smile. "And it wasn't until the summer before eleventh grade that Tubbs grew ill."
I scratch my chin, not attempting to mask the sadness that still fills me to the brim at his thought, but to seem esteemed in delivering rather unprovoked commentary. "Yeah, that news settled relatively well."
Thankfully, Santana merely sighs. "Back before I'd become nothing more than a stain on the couch, I learned in one of my philosophy classes that men and women approach times of potential crisis with different outlooks," she explains. "Keeping that in mind, I dissected the problem, figuring there was a reasonable solution."
"There wasn't," I hum in tandem. "Susan often said that he didn't stand a chance, and in his case, she was right."
My counterpart grunts at the name, adding, "We coped. I did what I could to ease her pain, but it was never enough. The first thing she'd ever willingly loved would soon be no more, and there wasn't a single thing I could do to stop it from happening."
Bernie makes a note, then twirls the writing utensil in his fingers. "Quite the helpless feeling, is it not?"
"And what came next was a tenfold experience," she mutters.
I unknowingly hold my breath upon concluding where the story's headed. A fateful chapter, it was; the inevitable decline. Pages devoted to neither winners nor losers, but plain human beings attempting to confront the major challenge thrown their way. Whether we developed as characters or not is entirely moot at this point, considering that the almost necessary occurrence taught us both one valuable lesson:
When it comes to the story of Brittany and Santana, one minute you're the hero, and the next, a villain. At any given moment, the roles can reverse, and you're thrown into a world of confusion. One filled with trying to accept your new identity while keeping the old within arm's reach.
No winners, no losers. Just two girls without a clue of how to keep the damage at bay.
I inhale and exhale deeply before mumbling, "The night at Karofsky's."
"No, no, no; it was so much more than that," she practically begs the open air. Santana's eyes lift to meet ours for the first time since having glued themselves to the floor, and I dare to meet every ounce of the shame and anguish put forth by the two opaque windows. Then, in a seemless whisper, she says, "It was the night the music stopped."