A/N: I'm glad I got this up before the New Year! (Sorry Australia) Thanks to JJ and everyone else who has shown patience and grace around this story.

Previously: Santana's parents left town and even though she said she would, Santana didn't show up to the café where Bar!Britt works now for a show Britt helped put together. Lab!Britt impulsively quit her job with Dr. Turner. Violet!Britt and Santana had their first truly intimate time and are very happy together.

Chapter 21: Chill

By the time Michelle was done with her set, I was feeling heavy and sad. Why hadn't Santana at least given me a reason why she didn't want to come? If she'd told me she was tired or sad or wanted to be alone, I would have understood. I really would. But she'd said nothing.

Nothing felt horrible.

I debated calling her on the way home. Now that I wasn't working in a bar, I got done a decent hour and my sleep schedule wasn't as messed up. Well, if I hadn't gotten up in the middle of the night before to take care of her, it wouldn't have been messed up. Not that I minded. I liked taking care of her. She was my sweet thing.

A little less sweet today. But she was exhausted and sad. Kind of like me.

Sadness can be so contagious.

I drove home and was relieved to see Justine on the couch with a glass of wine. Not fatigued from hours of serving drinks to drunk gay men, I poured myself a glass and sat down next to her.

Without saying anything, she inched closer to me and drew my head to her shoulder as her eyes stayed fixed on the TV screen. Somehow, that one little gesture from her made me cry. I didn't want to cry in front of her, especially when I didn't have a concrete reason. But I was crying, so I just let the tears fall, eventually wiping them away before taking another sip of my merlot. Justine didn't say anything, but when she shut the TV off and moved to go to bed, she gave me a sad, sympathetic smile.

Somehow, her not saying anything made me feel worse. She was resigned to seeing me like this, which made my relationship with Santana seem awful. It wasn't awful. It was just hard to explain.

The next day I woke up later than I expected to. I got ready in a hurry, knowing Michael expected me to be in the office at a certain time. I didn't bother drying my hair as I ran out the door, hoping it would look okay by the time I got to work. As I walked, I checked my phone over and over, wondering if Santana was awake yet and how soon I could text her without being clingy.

Maybe I was being too clingy. Maybe this was her way of telling me that. She wasn't always good at asking for things with words, and I hadn't learned how to read her behavior as well as I wanted to. Maybe this was test from her. If I could hold out and wait for her to approach me, just like I had with sex, then everything would be fine and we could be happy. Or almost happy. Secret happy, which isn't as good as always happy.

To boost my spirits, I scrolled through the few pictures I had of us. There hadn't been many occasions for us to take pictures together, since we rarely went out in public. But the few I had of her and of us made me feel better. It gave me something tangible to be strong for. I wished I'd worn her sweatshirt, even if it wasn't the most professional attire. Her sweatshirt was soothing.

By the time I ate dinner standing in the kitchen at Michael's, I still hadn't heard from Santana. The hours had seemed to go by so slowly as I called artists and vendors and promotion companies. My resolve started to crumble, and by the time I left to go home for the evening - Michael was managing the evening shift that night - I decided to cave. A loving relationship wasn't about tests and games and proving anything. It was just about the love.

But what could I say that she wouldn't read as clingy or demanding? I couldn't ask if she was okay again. I couldn't outright say I was worried she was upset or withdrawing from me. So I sent the most benign yet heartfelt text I could think of: I hope you're having a good day :)

Right away, she replied: You too.

No smiley face, no feeling, just six letters and a space.

I was getting really worried.

But I wasn't her girlfriend. I had no claim or right to demand she talk to me. I was just "her Britt." Sometimes it felt like a hollow title.

I went home and spent the evening the exact same way I had the night before, cuddled up to Justine on the couch. I didn't cry, though. I was too worried to cry. All I could do was keep my eyes fixed on the History Channel and pick at the food Justine had made. It was delicious, but I had no appetite.

The following day I didn't have to work. I dreaded an empty day full of nothing to do. I woke too early for anything other than laying in bed or jogging. I battled with myself for twenty minutes before forcing myself up and into my running pants. My shoes felt heavy, and I was still debating if I actually wanted to leave the house as I picked up my keys. But I had set myself in motion, and when I got outside and breathed in the chilly, humid air, I was glad for it. It awakened me from my sad stupor and filled my lungs to a capacity at which they hadn't worked in a few days.

I wasn't able to run my whole usual route. I cut it short through the park and walked the second half. I hadn't been running as much as usual lately because most mornings I'd been curled up to Santana. Not even the pleasant morning air could pry me from her arms. But now that her arms were closed, I was back on the pavement, trying to appreciate the time and opportunity, though it paled in comparison.

When I got back to my house, I pulled out my earplugs and stripped out of my not-even-damp jogging clothes. I showered and made breakfast for me and Justine. Desperate for things to do to avoid feeling heavy, I cleaned out the refrigerator and paid some bills.

Finally I just couldn't take the silence anymore. I walked out of my house and down the street until I got to Santana's apartment above the laundromat. I dug in the soil of the pot by the door on the off chance that she had replaced the key. She had. I unlocked the front gate and let myself in the door, walking up the stairs with purpose.

I had a vague sense of what I would say to her when I got to her door. I had half a mind to tell her off, to let her know how not okay it was for her to just fall off the face of the earth. I couldn't handle people I loved doing that to me. Not since Damon. Not since ever. The other part of me wanted to wrap her in my arms and never let go, making her promise not to scare me so much. Because I was scared. Loving people is scary.

I still hadn't fully decided what I would do when I found myself in front of her door. I held my ear to it, wondering if she was even home. I was scared she'd let her parents convince her to move back to Texas or something.

But I heard the flurrying clicks of her laptop keyboard scuttling while Florence and the Machine played in the background and knew she was home.

I lifted my hand, taking a breath before I rapped hard three times. I realized I had probably startled her. I heard her typing stop and held my breath.

Then the door swung open and my beautiful Santana stood before me, shiny black hair falling down over her shoulders, face clean and bright and rosy even without makeup. I felt myself weaken at the knees and my anger flee from my chest as she stood looking at me. Everything was perfectly still for a silent three seconds, and I wondered if she'd had a change of heart or been with another girl since the last time we'd seen each other. I prepared my heart to shatter with whatever happened next.

And then, to my surprise, she reached forward and took my hand, yanking me into her studio before slamming the door behind me and wrapping her arms around my neck, her mouth frantically fit to mine, kissing me feverishly as she stumbled backwards towards her bed. She pulled me with her, humming out relieved sobs that made my heart pound and my chest fill with guilt for being angry at her. This was my Santana, and there was no way she'd do anything purposely to hurt me. She loved me. She just couldn't say it out loud yet.

She tugged at my clothing, quickly stripping both of us until we were naked, pressed hard against each other, having fallen on her bed. The comforter was wrinkled again, and when I raised my head to gasp for air, I saw the sleeve of my sweatshirt poking out from under her pillow.

We were okay. Maybe she'd just needed a break from people for a few days, and it had nothing to do with me.

Sometimes love gives you the preposterous notion that everything is about you. It's not. Love is letting someone else's light fill you and shine out.

The sex was even better than I remembered. The brilliant desperation that had brought us together months before was back. Paired with how close we were now, it propelled us higher and higher, gasps wheezing and tongues frantic. It was explosive.

There was no way she could be like that with me if she didn't love me.

I had to keep reminding myself that words weren't everything. Her actions spoke loud and clear.

Afterwards we lay panting in silence for a few minutes, and I couldn't help the dopey grin that spread through my whole chest. All my worry and doubt was gone, released with the touch of her hand. It was a needed vacation.

"I thought you were mad at me," I admitted, tucking my head against Santana's shoulder.

"I'm not mad at you," Santana mumbled. "I could never be mad at you."

I hummed, thinking that surely there was something in the world I could do to make her mad at me. I didn't want to find out, though. I just wanted to bask in our reunion.

Part of me also wanted to know what had happened with her parents, but I didn't want to see her sad again. Joy was always precarious with her, and right now I needed joy.

And because it was joyful and true, I heard myself saying intentionally for the first time: "I love you, Santana."

She didn't move or say anything, only kissed the top of my head.

I would have to take her actions instead of her words, it seemed. I didn't have another choice.

"What are we doing tonight?" I asked, trying not to let any disappointment at her silence drag me down.

Santana sighed. "I have to go deal with Rachel." She didn't sound happy about it.

"What happened?" I asked.

"She called off her engagement," Santana said. I could practically hear her eyes roll into the back of her head. "Surprise, surprise."

I thought back to the night I'd met Santana and how she'd told me she didn't think Rachel's relationship with her fiancé would last.

"You called that one," I said.

"Unfortunately," Santana sighed.

"Well, you're a good friend for taking care of her," I said, giving her a squeeze. "It takes a patient person to do that."

Santana was still for a moment before she said, "I'm not nearly as patient as you."

Hearing her acknowledge how hard I worked to be understanding and patient with her felt like another release I didn't realize I needed. Her praise wasn't easily earned, and I felt very proud of myself.

"Thank you," I said.

x

I sat down in my desk chair, feeling my limbs stiff and my face blank. Had I really just done that? Had I really just quit my job?

As I felt my brain start to spin again, I started moving to prevent it from running away too fast. I opened a drawer and looked down at the mess of hair ties, pens, staples, bobby pins, and white-out bottles that were nestled between staplers and hole punches and rulers. I stared for a minute before slamming it closed and walking back to the copy room and picking up an empty box. Then, I frantically pulled everything out of my desk that was mine, not taking so much as a paper clip or post-it note that didn't belong to me. I didn't want anything that wasn't mine. I packed the small plant and the picture of my family and the tiny picture of Santana I kept hidden in the drawer and the miniature statue of my college mascot that sat next to my computer monitor. I packed it all away and picked up my purse. The last thing I did, after turning off my computer and pushing in my chair, was take off that horrible lab coat one final time, draping it over the back of my chair, glad to be rid of its drabness.

I walked out into the drizzling fog with my head held high, not saying goodbye to anyone.

I got to the bus stop, suddenly feeling self-conscious about carrying a box full of office things home on public transportation. Everyone would assume I'd just gotten fired, and therefore think I was an irresponsible or negligent employee or something. I wasn't a bad employee, and I wasn't being irresponsible. I was doing the right thing. Right?

Right?

The more I thought about it, the more I imagined what the people on the bus were thinking, and the more I realized what a huge thing I'd just done. I'd just quit my job. I'd just given up my paycheck and my health insurance and the whole reason for getting my Master's degree. I'd just taken everything I'd worked for and flushed it down the toilet.

I'd just done something so foolish and impulsive, I deserved every assumption they had about me.

I was a mess.

I felt my breathing start to get shallow and quick. My body went hot and cold again, and I felt dizzy.

Oh god, what had I done?

What was I going to do now? How was I going to pay my bills?

Desperate to feel anything but what I was feeling, I pulled out my phone. The first person I wanted to talk to was Santana. She could always calm me down when I was upset.

I held the phone to my ear with my shaky hand. It rang and rang and then went to voicemail. I cursed under my breath and hung up. I really needed her, and she wasn't available. She was probably in a meeting in her important job that she'd worked hard and sacrificed for. She would never do something so stupid as to quit just because it was hard and it didn't make her feel special. After a moment I was glad she didn't answer. She would probably think I had just done the stupidest thing in the world.

Seconds after I hung up, just as the shame and fear was threatening to cover and drown me, my phone vibrated in my hand. Santana's face popped up and I surged with anxiety.

"Hey," I said, shame clogging my voice.

"Hey," she said, voice gentle and quiet. "Sorry, I couldn't dig my phone out of my purse fast enough. What's up?"

"I did something really stupid," I squeaked. I heard tears pinching my voice as I started shaking, starting to cry.

Santana must have heard my panic because her voice turned worried. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Okay..." Santana said, worry creeping into her voice. "Do you want me to come over instead of going out tonight?"

Dreading telling her what I'd done but anxious to feel her calming presence, I said, "Yes."

I must have sounded desperate, because she said, "Do you need me to come right now?"

I sniffled before saying, "No."

"Are you sure?"

Again I paused. "Yeah."

"Okay..." Santana said, increasingly uneasy. "Is there anything I can do?"

I shook my head, swallowing before I said, "No. I think I just need to rest."

"Okay..."

I heard a muffled announcement over the speaker on the bus and decided to use it as an excuse to get off the phone. I was just making both of us uncomfortable. "I'm at my stop," I said, glancing at the cardboard box on the seat next to me. "I have to go."

"Okay," Santana said, calmer now that she knew my location. "I'll be over in a few hours."

"Okay. Thanks." I hung up without saying goodbye, wiping my face before drawing my scarf up over my mouth and ears, shielding as much of myself as I could.

I had made a terrible mess of my life.

I had barely gotten home and put down my things when there was a knock at the door. Thinking it must be a package, I opened the door and was surprised to find Santana on the other side. She was dressed casually and it was only three in the afternoon. Had she not gone to work today?

"Hi...," I mumbled, dreading that I'd have to tell her what I'd done. I didn't want to see her try to mask her disappointment in me. I should have just told her on the phone.

Santana stood rigid in the hall and her face was stricken. She looked afraid. I was puzzled. Had something bad happened to her? Was that why she was here early?

Before I could ask anything, Santana wrung her hands, eyes flittering around the inside of my apartment she had yet to set foot into.

"Britt," she mumbled. "What did you mean when you said you did something stupid?"

I swallowed, trying to figure out how best to explain the illogical thought process that had led me to quit my job to someone as rational as Santana.

But before I could, I heard her ask me, "Did something happen with Dr. Turner?"

I didn't want to answer that question. I didn't want to talk about Dr. Turner. So I fidgeted and saw Santana start to fidget too.

"Britt…" she said, searching out my gaze. "Did you two…?" She let the sentence hang unfinished.

Confused, I frowned at her. After a second I was stunned and insulted. Was she that distrustful of me? After everything we'd said to each other about trust and not having adequate collateral? Was that all talk?

My mouth hung open for a moment before I turned and slumped back to my room. "No," I muttered. "I did not cheat on you."

I heard Santana enter the apartment and shut the door behind her. I didn't want to look at her. I mean, Jesus Christ, she was supposed to come comfort me. That's all I'd wanted. Instead she'd come over too early and accused me of something so preposterous, I wondered if she knew me at all.

"Okay," Santana mumbled.

I made in into my room and was tempted to close the door behind me, blocking Santana out. I was so hurt, I didn't want to be around her. She was making this all worse, which I didn't think was possible.

I sat crosslegged on my bed for a moment before I slumped over and rested my head on the pillow, facing the wall. I was tempted to cry, but my anger was too hot to let tears through. Instead I just went rigid, ears tuned to Santana's delicate movements behind me.

She made her way through the living room, sliding her purse over the back of Justine's chair before approaching my door. There she stopped and asked quietly. "May I come in?"

Not trusting myself to speak, I gave a stiff nod to the wall in front of me.

Santana eased her way into the room, pausing to survey the surroundings. It was so quiet that I grew too anxious. I rolled onto my back so I could see what she was doing and what she was looking at. She looked around the room until her eyes fell on the cardboard box resting on my desk chair. Her mouth opened an inch before she shut it again. Then she took a few careful steps towards the box and peered in, examining the contents before reaching in and pulling out the tiny figurine of my college mascot.

Holding it in her hand, she looked up at me with pained worry. "Britt, did you get fired?" she asked, almost whispering.

Then I felt the tears start to rise, hot and quick in my eyes. I shook my head just as Santana became blurry. "Worse," I said, starting to sound soggy. "I quit."

Santana gasped and rushed forward, setting the figurine on the bedside table. She extended her hands to me, but stopped at the last minute. She eyed the quilt on my bed and asked, "May I sit?"

Even though I was upset and Santana had just accused me of cheating on her, I adored that she was so respectful of my boundaries.

I nodded again, reaching up to wipe my face.

Santana sat on my bed and leaned over, brushing my hair from my face as though she wanted to hug me but didn't want to invade my space. It felt like she wanted to hold all of me but was being careful so I wouldn't break.

"I don't know what I was thinking," I said, voice wavering. "I just- it was like I went on autopilot. I walked into his office and told him I was done."

Santana stroked my hair for a few moments before she said, "I'm so proud of you, Britt."

I scoffed. "It was stupid and impulsive."

Santana shook her head. "It was something you needed to do."

Feeling my anxiety rise up like a wave threatening to crash, I started rattling off the reasons why my impulsive behavior had been dumb. "But how am I gonna pay my bills? What if I get sick? What about my résumé?"

Santana said nothing, just kept looking down at me until I couldn't bear it anymore and closed my eyes to keep my tears under control.

"Britt, you were miserable there," she finally said.

I sniffled, trying to clear my sinuses so I could speak clearly. "But we have to make sacrifices to get where we want to be. I'm sure someday I would have found something I didn't hate..."

Santana was quiet for another moment before she said, "As someone who has made plenty of sacrifices for her career - including some that were the wrong ones - I still think you did what you needed to do."

"I should have found something else first," I argued, feeling my self-hatred start punching around in much chest. What I'd done had been so stupid and childish. "Now I don't even qualify for unemployment because I quit! I'm not going to be able to pay my rent or my credit card bill or buy groceries..."

"I'll help you out," Santana said all too eagerly.

I recoiled at that. For some reason it was the worst thing she could have said. I know she meant well, but it made me bristle.

"No," I said, pushing her hand away from my face. "The last thing I want is for you to sugarmama me."

I realized immediately I had come across much harsher than I intended to. I'd meant what I said, but I hadn't meant to push her away.

Santana put her hands in her lap, pinching her knees together as she looked toward the closet. It was sickeningly quiet for a few seconds before she said, "I'm not trying to sugarmama you. I care about you, and if you need help, I want to provide it."

Remembering what a sweet, loving heart Santana really had, I softened with guilt and reached for her arm again. "I know. I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I'm just a little freaked out. Being accused of cheating on you didn't help."

Santana's shoulders drooped. "I'm sorry," she said. "That wasn't about you... That was - well, when you called, you used the same words Callie used when she told me she cheated on me. She called me and said she'd 'just done something stupid.' So when you said it, my mind just went there." She looked at me with a sad smile. "Part of my baggage."

I grasped her arm and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sorry," I said.

Santana nodded and put her hand over where mine rested on her arm. "If I'd stopped to think for a minute about who I was talking to, I would have realized I was being silly."

I nodded. "We should have that talk," I said, dreading it already.

"The ex talk?" she asked. I detected a little grimace and was glad she didn't seem excited about it either.

I nodded, mirroring her expression.

"We should," she said. She paused for a moment. "Not now though."

Relieved, I agreed. "Yeah, not now."

She reached toward my face and cupped my cheek. "Can I take care of you for a little bit?"

Seeing the intense tenderness in her eyes and realizing we were sitting on my bed, I grew cautious. "Take care of me how?"

She ran her thumb over where a tear track had been. "Cook you dinner?"

Relieved, I nodded. Having a good meal with her was exactly what I needed. Even when I was exhausted and fragile, being around her felt good. I could sit in silence with her for hours. She was a big comfort to me when we were on the same page.

"Can it be at my place?" Santana asked. "I've got some stuff I've been meaning to use, and I don't want to make a mess here."

Since I was comfortable in Santana's house and I didn't care either way, I nodded.

Santana smiled, happy that I'd finally accepted some of her abundant generosity.

I was glad to have a plan for the evening, since I'd just thrown out my plan in every other aspect of my life. But I still wanted to ground myself.

"Can I take a bath first?" I asked.

"Of course. Take a long hot bath and come over when you're ready."

Sighing in relief, I pressed my hand over hers, thanking her for being gentle and understanding. "Okay," I mumbled.

x

It had been a blissful eight months of dates and sleepovers and falling more in love with Santana. I didn't know where we'd be or what our relationship would look like in the future. We both had families and jobs and things that were important to us. But I felt, increasingly, like she was becoming more important than most things. That scared me.

And yet I couldn't back away or even slow down. I was so in love with her, and she with me, and although it was scary, I didn't have to chase her or ask her to chase me. We were just there, occasionally leaning towards or away from each other, but our feet were solidly planted. It felt so good, yet so precarious. Our separate lives were sometimes hard to fit together, no matter how perfectly jigsawed our bodies and hearts were. We had vastly different careers and sleep schedules, and our social circles didn't overlap at all. But what we were doing was working.

The toothbrush I had at her place and hers at mine quickly became a drawer, and then an area of the room. I started having to think for a moment about which clothes in my closet were hers and which were mine. Sometimes I wasn't sure if I thought my favorite plum colored silk blouse looked better on her or on me, or if it was her favorite, or actually belonged to her. The lines between us were thinner than I had anticipated would happen so quickly. And yet I had no desire to change anything. I liked our routine.

One Sunday morning we were lounging on Santana's couch. I'd swapped shifts with Nora the night before, giving me a rare opportunity to spend a Saturday night out with Santana. I'd taken her to a comedy show, and we'd both laughed until our stomachs hurt. Then we'd come back to her place and had some of the wonderful Brittany-and-Santana sex we'd been having, where Violet wasn't welcome. I hardly had to work at all to keep Violet away from Santana these days. I felt like things were falling into the places I wanted them; Violet stayed at Jez and only Jez while Brittany roamed freely everywhere else. Having sold my car, I was debt-free and living comfortably on my Jez earnings.

Things were pretty darn good except for the one thing that Santana and I avoided talking about.

Santana wasn't out.

Santana had told Isaiah she liked women, been going to meetings at the LGBT center, and hanging out with the cute gay couple who adopted her like a puppy at the pound. She'd brought me along to meet Dave and Michael once, and I was relieved to discover they were as sweet and deserving of Santana's company as I'd hoped. They were a good influence on her. I even felt comfortable enough around them to out myself as a stripper after a few meetings, which hadn't even earned me a surprised blink from them. I wondered briefly if Santana had told them, but when I asked her about it later, she said she hadn't. The wonderful thing about Santana was that I knew I could believe her. She always told me the truth. So I supposed Dave and Michael just didn't care that I danced naked for a living.

It's unbelievably relieving to find people like that.

But it also served as a harsh reminder that not everyone is like that. Given Santana's anxiety, I couldn't imagine her parents would handle the news that their daughter was a lesbian well if she decided to tell them.

I tried not to let myself feel like I was shrinking whenever Santana stepped out onto her tiny, chilly balcony to take a call from her mother or father whenever I was in the apartment. I knew she loved me, and she knew I loved her, but it was starting to feel like we were putting off sacrifices that would have to be made eventually. My anxiety grew, hoping her sacrifice wouldn't be me. I loved her too much to think about losing her because of something I couldn't control. I wished that, if she decided to tell them, her family would come to see that their daughter being in love was the most important thing, and the details were unimportant. But I didn't know if she would tell them.

The anxiety all this brought on wasn't overbearing. It didn't weigh on all our dates and it certainly didn't find us in bed. If anything, bed was our haven. We tried to block out the rest of the world until one of us had to get up and rejoin the furious sea outside. But I know that I was always looking for the next sympathetic shore to hop off and bury myself in her once more.

Now Santana settled into the couch next to me and said, "Hey, pretty girl."

I grinned and leaned forward, pecking her on the cheek. "Hey, beautiful girl."

She gave me a bashful smile in return, but then her expression settled and I knew there was something she wanted to talk about.

"Uh oh," I said. "Not the serious discussion face."

She tried to giggle my comment off, but that only served to confirm what I suspected.

"I'm planning to tell my parents tonight," she said.

I felt my body stiffen and chill.

I wasn't expecting her to come out and say it like that.

Don't get me wrong: I wanted Santana to be as out and proud as she wanted to be. I really did. But at the same time, I was so, so protective of her. I loved her so much, and I didn't know if her parents would respond well to the fact that she was dating a girl. I knew she wouldn't tell them about my job - that would have probably killed them - but I still had reservations. It's no small thing to come out.

Another thing - and this sounds so horrible - that I didn't want to deal with was the fact that I would be implicated in her coming out. When she told her parents she was gay, they would inevitably ask if she was seeing someone, or she'd tell them, and then I might be the dreaded trigger, the person they could pin all the blame for their daughter's "defection" on. I could become such an abhorrent being, my stripping would seem like a Peace Corps term.

I didn't want Santana to come out for me. I wanted her to do it for herself. We'd only been together eight months, and while things were better than I ever fantasized they could be, that still wasn't much ground to stand on if - god forbid - Santana's parents cut her off and she had no one to turn to but me. No matter how much I loved her, I wasn't ready to be her only support. I didn't think I'd ever be. It's not healthy to be that isolated. Sure, she'd have Dave and Michael, but they were going through the process of building their own support network after Michael's parents cut him off. Being older and having been out longer, I knew the dangers of an ill-timed outing. Lives were forever altered for the worse.

Thinking back to how I told my parents, it's astonishing that it went as smoothly as it did. My parents are good people, but they have lived in Michigan their whole lives and they're not terribly liberal. I guess I was just young and optimistic and luckily they were receptive. But I didn't think that Santana's parents would be. When she'd first asked me out and told me she'd outed herself to Isaiah and started going to meetings and had plans to tell her parents she liked girls, I was apprehensive. But that apprehension was nothing compared to what I felt now.

Now Santana was telling me she was going to come out to her parents. Tonight.

"Don't worry," Santana said, reaching for my hand and squeezing it, trying to soothe whatever expression was betraying my anxiety.

But her assurance wasn't as certain as it could have been. We both knew tonight could change things forever. I wasn't ready for her to take that risk. But it also wasn't my risk to take. It wasn't my place to tell her not to come out. All I could do was relay my concerns and hope for the best.

"What if they don't take it well?" I asked. "What if they blame me?"

Santana bit her lip, acknowledging the possibility. "They won't blame you," she said, more certain than before. "They're quite keen to point out my own poor decisions and behaviors. They taught me from a young age that I was responsible for myself, not other people."

I nodded, hoping she was right. I didn't want her parents to dislike me. But I also didn't want her to experience any hurt or struggle because of me. I felt my heart speed up and my stomach twist with worry, but I tried as hard as I could not to let it show. She had found so much courage in the last year, I didn't want to undermine it.

I thought about the best way to convey my worries to her without discouraging her. How could I best tell her I wasn't sure we were ready for her to come out? How could I prepare her for the worst without crushing her spirit and robbing her of her bravery? How could I be so selfish to make her journey about me?

But before I had figured out how to even start the discussion, her phone vibrated on the coffee table. She leaned over it, eyes widening as she saw who was calling.

"Speak of the devil," she said, looking up with sudden fear it in her eyes. "I guess I'm telling them now."

My heart pounded.

"Maybe you should wait," I started, desperate to buy time as she reached to pick up the phone.

But Santana shook her head, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek as she got up and headed toward her balcony. As she slid open the door, she held the phone to her ear, looked at me as though she were about to dive underwater, and mouthed the words I love you.

The air that flew into the room as the door scraped closed only quickened my chill. Every inch of my skin was alert, making me squirm with discomfort. I wanted to jump up and fling the door open and pry the phone from Santana's hands, throwing it onto the street below, begging her to give us more sacred time together before the spell was broken. I wanted everything to stay the same. I wasn't ready for anything to move forward.

But she was an adult, and this wasn't a choice I got to make for her.

As if he knew I needed some grounding, Schro climbed up onto the couch and settled into my lap, nudging my hand with his soft nose, demanding I pet him.

I sat on the couch, petting him distractedly, dreading the future that was starting now. I wished I could hear what Santana was saying, but the drone of the heater and the pipes and the wind outside drowned her voice out. I could hear her inflections and tone, but I couldn't hear much else.

I stared through the glass smudged with fingerprints and dried rain at her back. She was wearing her terry cloth robe, which I hoped staved off the worst of the chill. She leaned over the railing and looked down at the street, hair curtaining her face so I couldn't see her expression. She looked like the perfect Sunday morning, but I was too afraid to take in her full beauty.

I watched her back shift as she worried the belt of her robe between her fingers, switching the phone from one ear to another. I heard her voice shift from pleasant greetings to genuine concern with her parents' well-being. They were catching up, as I was used to hearing when she talked to them.

And then her voice grew so low I couldn't hear it anymore. She was perfectly still, and I squinted, wondering if she was trembling with fear or regret or cold. I wanted to hear what was happening so bad. But I could see nothing.

She stood motionless aside from her hair wavering with the breeze for what felt like hours. I would have thought her a statue had she not reached up to touch her eye. At first I thought she was wiping away a tear and worried I needed to prepare for the worst. But the movement was a definite scratch, and I exhaled, realizing I was holding my breath.

The minutes wore on. I looked at the clock, wondering what time she'd stepped outside. It felt like hours, but I knew realistically it had only been about ten minutes.

After I started watching the time, it was another ten minutes before Santana made any movement. I heard her voice for the first time in minutes, and her tone was defensive and anxious. I felt myself surge. Why hadn't I gone out there to stop her? Why hadn't I protected her?

But then her voice grew quiet again, and she lifted her hand to her eyes, wiping away what I knew it were tears this time. Her back was shivering, and her shoulders were hunching against more than just the cold.

All I could do was sit on the couch with Schro, helpless while the woman I loved felt her world start to unravel. I felt a lump rise in my throat and a tide of dread start to rise, preparing to crash on the upcoming months of my life. No matter how fast I ran, no matter what I did, at this point, something was going to break, and I didn't want it to be her or me or us.

But then Santana lowered the phone from her ear, hanging up. She held it out in front of her for a minute, staring at it as she held it over the street below.

I needed to know what had happened so I could prepare.

After a minute she turned around and I saw her face, streaked with tears. But her expression wasn't the desperate, shocked sadness I expected.

No, her face held relieved joy. She gave me a watery smile.

The door scraped open and she stepped back in. She said in a quivering, disbelieving voice, "They want to meet you."