Chapter 25: And This Is the Wonder That's Keeping the Stars Apart
It blindsided me. Not that she was there, or that she looked good, healthy even. It was that smile.
Santana sat on the stoop, overdressed in one of the tight skirts she'd taken to wearing when we weren't in uniform. Her heeled boots emphasized how long her legs were, stopping at her knee. Despite the attire, she didn't seem uncomfortable on the porch, leaning on the heels of her hands. She didn't get up. She just sat, legs extended in front of her and crossed at the ankles, and smiled.
"Is that…?" Erica's voice trembled.
"Yeah. That's Santana."
Her fingers grazed my wrist, wanting to hold me back, keep me from leaving the car, but I was already halfway out the door. I ignored the twinge of guilt in my gut. I didn't notice how quickly behind me she followed, but as my feet carried me weightlessly up the front walk, I felt her presence not far behind. I stopped far enough away from Santana that Erica maneuvered up beside me, half her body in front of mine protectively. I touched her arm and stepped around her without waiting for what I knew would be a painful look.
And still, Santana did nothing but smile.
She smiled when she stood, smiled when she brushed off the back of her dress, smiled when she wiped her hands on her thighs. She smiled when she held out her hand, and smiled when said cocked her head kindly and said, "Hi, I'm Santana. It's nice to meet you."
And it was strange, because when she said it, she wasn't looking at Erica. She was looking at me.
I furrowed my brow, glancing between Santana, her outstretched hand and Erica. "San, what are y-"
"Hi," she repeated, nudging her open palm closer. "My name is Santana. It's nice to meet you."
She was patient, waiting, watching. She hadn't even acknowledged Erica, standing just behind me and not quite glaring, but certainly not happy about the person standing there with her hand out, expectant. It seemed so odd, that smile on her face, the sentence she repeated before she'd said another word to me. Seven months apart, and the first thing she did was act like we'd never even met.
But Santana always had a reason. So I trusted her. I reached out and put my hand in hers.
The burn I anticipated never came. Instead of a searing wound, there was an electrical current. It ran through her slender wrist, down her palm to the tips of her fingers, brushing so delicately across mine that I almost didn't realize how badly she was shaking. It surged through my hand, up the length of my arm, tingling against every nerve in my body. She caught my eye and held it there, the smile breaking for just a moment. I held her tighter, trying to calm her tremor while grounding myself against the current. That's how you avoid getting struck by lightning, right? Ground yourself? I was told that didn't happen twice, not in the same place, not to the same person. But here she was, her hand in mine, and I was struck.
How could I have ever thought that anyone else existed?
"I don't understand," I said, pulling my hand away regretfully. The current was making my thoughts foggy.
She looked down at the palm that had once held mine and shook it out, feeling the surge as well. But still, she smiled.
"Clean slate, B," she said, curling the shaking hand into a fist at her side. "Tabula rasa, remember?"
Erica inched her way forward, once again putting her body between Santana and I. Santana's eyes flicked to her for the first time, and the smile faltered. Her full upper lip righted itself almost instantly, but her eyes still blinked back what I thought was fear. I saw my old Santana there, hunkered down and waiting for the façade to crack enough that she could slip through. The old Santana that was too scared to talk about feelings, that wanted acceptance and normalcy, that certainly wasn't gay. But the old Santana that loved me.
Too much.
"San…" I didn't know what I wanted to say, but her name on my tongue felt unfamiliar. I tripped over it, stopping and looking at her, hoping she'd fill in the confused blanks. I shrank back, allowing myself be scared while Santana tried to be strong.
"Kurt told me he wrote to you," she said, clenching and unclenching the hand I'd held. "You seem surprised to see me, though. I thought he might have warned you I was coming."
I remembered the email I'd deleted without reading, unsure of whether or not him telling me would have changed things. Would I have told him to ask her not to come? Would warning have readied me for her sitting on my porch? How do you prepare yourself to be struck by lightning?
I could still feel the tingling in my nerves, something akin to goosebumps, but on the inside of my body. That, and the way she looked at me – like she was trapped at the bottom of a well, and I was the ladder – reassured me of one thing. I would have given anything to see her again, even if it was just once, to say goodbye.
"He wrote," I confirmed, not mentioning the deleted email. "He didn't say anything about you visiting in the emails I read, though." Not a lie, but neither entirely true. Erica nudged me with her hip and I immediately felt guilty.
Pleasantries aside, we had nothing left to say. Nothing that wasn't I miss you. I love you. Come back to me.
So we said nothing, shuffling our feet.
Erica, not one to withstand an awkward silence, shoved fully between me and Santana. She stuck her hand out, mimicking what Santana had done a moment before.
"We haven't met," she said forcefully. "I'm Erica. Brittany's… friend." She pointedly emphasized 'friend' as though trying to imply something, and the reaction she received was appropriate. Santana winced, glancing at me either for permission to shake the offending hand, or for confirmation that the implication was true. I gave her neither, blushing and toeing the ground, which she took as shame; shame that Erica's emphasis meant exactly what she thought it did.
"Santana Lopez," she returned, taking Erica's hand but staring at me, her voice carrying the mournful twinge of a widow. "Brittany's."
She stopped there. Just 'Brittany's', a rebuttal to Erica's subtle jab. It was effective enough and the two of them fought a silent mental war, their eyes causing maiming wounds before I could intercede.
"Brittany's told me about you." Erica assessed Santana, eyeing her suspiciously. Despite the fact that Santana had three inches on her, Erica's menacing confidence shook Santana noticeably. "What are you doing here?"
Santana narrowed her eyes, glancing between me and Erica with an Is this girl for real? look on her face. I couldn't fault Erica for asking the question that had been on my mind since I'd first seen Santana on the stoop.
"Clean slate, B," she said again, looking over the top of Erica's head, mustering up some of her lost courage. "Please, can we talk? In private?"
Yes, I wanted to say. But before I could, Erica stepped in.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
I yanked her arm sharply, turning her on her heel to face me, livid at her intrusion. "You don't get to make that decision, Erica."
Tugging her arm from my hand, she tried not to look hurt. "Think about this, Brittany. You told me what it was like being with her. You're still in recovery. Maybe I don't get to make this decision, but I sure as hell won't sit here while you make the wrong one."
Santana didn't move, watching intently. From the girl I'd known back in Lima, I might have expected anger toward Erica, who probably reminded her of a queer Rachel Berry. But the only emotion I found on her face was hope. She wanted to talk, not fight, and as much as Erica thought I was making the wrong move, I needed to hear what Santana had to say.
"Go inside, San," I said softly, and the relief that broke in her smile sent a burst of warmth through my chest. "I'll be there in a minute." I tossed her my house key and she disappeared inside, leaving Erica and I alone on the lawn.
"You know I care about you, right?"
I nodded, staring at the closed door and all the potential behind it. "Yeah, I know."
"Then you know why I'm going to call Charlie."
Again, I nodded, and followed it with a sigh. "I'm sorry I let you down."
She took my hand, squeezing hard and inching closer. "I think she clouds your judgment, Britt. I want you to be healthy, and I think she could stand in the way of that."
She stopped, her mouth open, losing her next thought in the ether. She shook her head and chewed anxiously on the inside of her cheek.
"Maybe I'm standing in the way, too."
I cocked my head, curious. She had been nothing but supportive from day one.
"Clearly you're still working the steps," she explained. "You're too new to sobriety, too unsure of who you are to make decisions to help yourself move forward. You want to go back to the way things were. I get it. But look at what you're walking into, Britt. Look at who you're walking into. You said yourself that she's not stable. She –"
"I never said that," I interjected, suddenly defensive of Santana, recalling the day in the dining room, and how I'd spilled Santana's and my story to Erica with a lingering burn on the back of my hand. "I said she needed space from me, just like I needed space from her."
"Well, look at her," she said, gesturing to the house and the girl waiting inside. "Does it feel like she's had enough space? Do you feel like you've had enough space?"
I bit my lip and stared at the ground.
"I didn't think so." She sighed, her voice softening. "You jumped right from her to me and it wasn't like I was trying to stop you. I was supposed to be your friend, help you be independent from all that. All this. Instead I was just another crutch."
I tried to object, but she squeezed my hand again, silencing me.
"You're no more ready to be with me than she is to be with you. This—" she gestured between the two of us "—was a bad idea. We should have listened to Charlie."
There was nothing more to argue. Even if I had, it wouldn't have been fair to Erica to try and keep her. Not when she saw the resignation in my slumped shoulders and knew there was no place for her. Not then, when I was just seven months sober, when Santana was waiting inside and I had made my decision.
"I meant it, you know."
I looked up from the ground, guilty. "What?"
"What I said that night, that I'll still be here for you." She closed the space between us and stood on her toes. Even then, she had to rest her hand on my shoulder to pull me down enough to place a kiss on my cheek. "You're amazing Brittany. And I'd rather be your friend and see you happy than be nothing to you."
She settled back on her heels and glanced nervously at the house.
"But think about this, okay? What you might have thought was happiness then doesn't always equate to happiness now."
Erica tightened her hand around mind one last time before turning and heading back to her car. On the way she pulled her phone out of her pocket and made the call to Charlie. Before she drove away she waved, her arm heavy and her expression solemn. Maybe she thought she knew what would happen when I went inside.
I didn't even know myself.
She sat on the couch with her hands tucked between bouncing knees. I curled into Dad's recliner across the coffee table, my feet beneath me. I couldn't risk anything by taking the vacant seat next to her.
Her eyes followed me down, studying me, my movements. When my hand came to my forehead to brush away a fallen strand of hair, she watched it, observing me for hints of change. I, in turn, watched her. Without Erica there, she had my full attention. I could take in the small things I'd missed in that first encounter on the stoop. How her cheeks had fleshed out a little, her face fuller and almost cherubic in its glow. She had a healthy rouge in her cheeks and her hair had grown a few inches. The way it fell around her shoulders (it was so uncommon to see it down) was oddly comforting. Loose, it reminded me of all those nights she spent in my bed, her body wrapped tightly – protectively – around mine.
"You look good."
We spoke in unison, and likewise we both blushed simultaneously. I tried to hide my smile by tucking my chin to my chest, but she tutted reproachfully. I lifted my eyes to meet hers.
"You look good," she repeated, adding emphasis and smiling. "Great, even."
My cheeks burned brighter. She didn't stop her quiet assessment, studying the way I curled closer in on myself when she spoke. She opened me up, exposing me, making me feel naked beneath her eyes. It wasn't an unwelcome feeling. But at the same time I wanted to shrink away from it, protect myself from those eyes that could undress me in an instant and break down every wall I had without even trying. I needed distance. At least for the moment.
"You look good too, San," I said, and she grinned nervously. "But…"
"But what?"
I looked down at my hands, picking at my cuticles, trying to find a kind way of asking. There wasn't a good way to go about it.
"But why are you here?"
She gave a single stiff nod and sat up a little straighter. Her knees bobbed quickly up and down, fidgeting. She tried to get comfortable in her tight dress and tall boots, but the relaxed look she'd had on the porch was gone. In its place were anxiousness and unease.
"Why is the easy part," she said, finally settling back to her original position, hunched with elbows on her thighs and her hands between her knees. "Ask me something harder."
Perhaps it was obvious to her, but 'why' was still elusive for me. 'Why now' was something else entirely. 'How' led to 'what' and 'whom'. There were so many questions. I thought 'why' would have been the easiest way to begin. Maybe interrogation wasn't the tactic to start with anyway.
"Kurt said you quit glee," I offered instead, not asking the question that was implied with the statement.
"Too many reminders," she returned. "Too many people telling me I'd be okay without you."
"Were you?"
Santana paused, considering her answer before speaking. Even then, she chose each word carefully, delicately putting together the most sensitive version of, "No, I died when you left."
"Not at first," she said, looking at her bare knees. "I drove around until I couldn't see anymore. Burt was the one they called to tow my car after the cops found it in front of the school. Figures that the only auto shop in Lima would be owned by Kurt's dad… The Hummels took me in, I guess. I stayed with them for a week, until Daddy let me go home."
I arched an inquisitive eyebrow and she shrugged, trying not to make a big deal of what was obviously a surprise to both of us.
"Burt talked to him. We didn't really, like, sit down over it. One day I was in Kurt's room, curled up on that ridiculously uncomfortable couch, and the next I was home. Things… they kept going, whether I wanted them to or not. Life kept going. I felt like I was sitting there watching it happen."
She cleared her throat and sat back, crossing her arms over her chest defensively, the memory of it effecting her more than she might let on.
"But what about you, B?" She changed the subject smoothly, her voice not giving in to the discomfort her body language betrayed. "You've been… busy."
We both took a second to linger on that word, assessing the meaning. She wanted to know about Erica, but I wanted to tell her everything else. About Charlie and the program and the way Sharon distrusted me so much that rather than having me baby-sit for free after school, she sent Courtney to a latchkey program until she got out of work. I didn't want to hurt her with details of a love life that I wasn't even sure existed.
"Busy seems like a strong word," I mumbled. "I don't think I've done anything in the last six months but study and go to meetings."
She waited, silent, expecting more. Quid pro quo, I owed her that much.
"Erica…" I paused when she winced at the name, trying to soften the blow. "She helped me catch up. I'm going to graduate on time because of her."
"You'll forgive me if I don't fall grateful at her feet." Santana's defenses went up abruptly, her arms clinging tighter around her chest. It wasn't angry, but the distaste on her tongue was noticeable. "Seems like she caught you up on more than school work. She give you lessons in Gay 101, too?"
"Don't do that," I begged, hearing her itch to attack. "You don't know her."
Santana lowered her eyes, ashamed. But like a Rottweiler, she didn't know when to let go of a bone. "Do you? You've been gone a few months and you're already cozy."
"Seven," I corrected. "Seven months, Santana. And if I remember correctly, you send me a pretty clear message that you were moving on, too."
"I didn't mean…" She started, but paused, and I could almost see her playing the song over again n her head. She sighed. "You and I were focusing on different parts of the song, I guess. Maybe that was always our problem."
I tucked my legs up tighter under my body and narrowed my eyes. She had something worth coming all the way to Akron to say, and she decided to be passive aggressive instead. The old ache of insincerity and fear bubbled up in my chest, reminding me of everything I'd left behind in Lima. I blinked back the strong desire to call Charlie and ask him when he'd be there. I needed him.
"You can't do this, San," I whispered, serious and scared. "You can't come here and dredge up the past without telling me why."
"You know why—"
"No," I snapped, harsher than I intended, and I stopped to take a calming breath. "No. I don't know why. Why now? Why wait seven months? What's changed for you, Santana, that you can come here and judge how I've chosen to get sober and the people I surround myself with? Last time I checked, Sue Sylvester isn't exactly a model for mental health."
The affronted expression on her face meant I'd struck a nerve. Embarrassed and ashamed, she bit her lip and stared at the floor. "I never meant to… I wouldn't judge… You're right. I'm sorry."
The apology was whispered so sincerely that I regretted snapping. We sat there, quiet, waiting for the other to take initiative. I figured I'd asked what I needed to ask. She could answer my questions, or the conversation would be over. I didn't want it to be, but I couldn't sit in the same room with her and not know that she was there for the right reasons.
"I've missed you," she murmured, and I could hear the tears that refused to fall. "Everyday, I've missed you."
I sighed and closed my eyes. She hadn't changed. It was still pulling teeth to get a real, honest answer.
"That's not enough, Santana," I said, digging my nails into the arms of the recliner. "You think I didn't miss you, too? You think being here – alone – was easy? It wasn't. I worked so fucking hard every goddamn day, and you know what I was thinking the whole time? 'I wonder if Santana is working just as hard.'"
She swallowed thickly and refused to look at me. I wanted her to explain, tell me everything in gratuitous, disgusting detail. I wanted her to get up and scream that she was okay, that she had fought just as hard as I had. That she'd thought of me like I had thought of her; always present, but distant enough to have learned what it meant to be alone.
But she said nothing, sitting with her arms tight around her, shielding herself, still so scared of feelings so many months later. I wasn't even angry with her. I'd gotten what I wanted: to see her one last time, to say goodbye.
"Thanks for coming, San," I said, fighting back the lump that welled in my throat. "Tell Kurt I said hello."
"Wait."
I'd gotten halfway to my feet, but she was already on hers. The force in her command sent me back into the recliner and I lookup at her. She hovered next to the couch, surprised at her own outburst. With wide eyes she moved around the coffee table and sat down on it in front of me. She stared, pleading and silent for a full minute, before her trembling hand reached out and came to rest on mine.
"Wait."
Her hand and the word begged for patience, and despite everything in me that screamed to let her go, I nodded. She held me, her grip around my fingers tight and unwavering. Her eyes, though, were unsure.
"Just talk to me, San," I urged, as gently as I could. "Start at the beginning. I'm not going anywhere."
She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, pressing her knees together and bowing out her heels.
"When you left, I…" She caught herself, tripping over her words. She let go of my hand to steady her own pulse, pressing the palm to her chest. "When you left I thought my life was over. I didn't have a home, I didn't have a family, I didn't have any friends. I had nothing. Without you? Nothing."
The guilt that plagued me fought with the logic I'd clung to since leaving Lima. It was what was best for both of us. Stop beating yourself up. You did the right thing. But I warred with it, especially now, seeing her in front of me, reliving those first days alone. I'd had the luxury of being unconscious for most of it. She had suffered, and at my hand.
"Kurt… he let me stay with him," she went on, trying not to look me directly in the eye, as though this homelessness was an embarrassment. "Burt was a better father to me in a week than mine had been my whole life, but somehow… somehow I still ended up back there. It was quieter. Eerie, really. I walked in the door with Kurt and my bag and it was like I'd never been kicked out. Daddy said hello and went to work, like always. Mamí… she didn't say anything. Nothing had really changed."
The mention of her mother sent a rivulet down her cheek. Despite the fact that they never really got along, I knew why. She'd been emphatic about it once before. The woman was her mother, after all, and the only one she had. But she was also the mother that had decided it was easier to leave than stay and fight. I reached over, the old instinct to comfort taking over, and wiped the tear from her face. She flinched at my thumb beneath her eye and I withdrew.
"I'm sorry," I said, pulling my hand away, thinking like I'd overstepped. She stopped me, her palm finding mine and holding it midair, feeling the surge again. It revitalized her, and as quickly as the tears had come, they were gone.
"Don't be sorry," she said, bringing our hands down to hang together between us. "You've done nothing to be sorry for."
"I'm sorry about your mom." It wasn't the original intent of the statement, but I was, so I said it anyway. I hated her mother and how she'd treated Santana, but I knew how Santana felt. I felt it, too; the absence of someone you so desperately wanted to love you.
She smiled sadly and shook her head. "She didn't even leave until well after Sue started me up in therapy. You know she's allocated some of the Cheerios' budget for emotional counseling? Apparently the school was sued a few years ago after one of her cheerleaders had a breakdown. She's forced to use some of the sponsorship money to get girls help if they start falling apart because she's such a tyrant."
I couldn't suppress the giggle in my throat and it escaped. She heard it, and her smile broadened.
"I missed that, too," she said, inching closer. "Your laugh."
"Don't change the subject," I teased, blushing. "You were in therapy?"
She nodded, not letting go of my hand. She adjusted in her place on the coffee table, and our knees brushed. The connection of our skin sent a shudder down my spine, and I pressed forward, wanting to feel it again. She leaned closer, obliging.
"You know, trust is a really funny thing," she observed, staring at our legs. "It's fickle. It's there and gone so quickly. And once someone takes it from you, you can't really get it back without working for it. I didn't show up at practice for a week after you left, and when I did, Sue looked like she might have a coronary. Two of her best cheerleaders just disappeared. But what else was there for me to do, if not Cheerios? So I went back, and had to explain. It was like ripping out my own heart and showing it to a starving lion. I thought I'd be eaten alive for showing weakness. But for some stupid reason, I trusted her."
"And she helped you," I offered, and suddenly Sue's appearance at my house didn't seem so random.
"Yeah," she grinned. "Sue Sylvester, the woman without a soul, went out of her way to help another human being. How messed up is that?"
She's getting help, Sue had said. I'm sorry. Maybe I'd been quick to judge her. All her reassurances had fallen on deaf ears, but here was Santana, living proof that the woman was more than a dictator in a tracksuit.
"Not messed up. I think she needs us just as much as we needed her. She just has a funny way of showing it."
Santana rolled her eyes, but smirked. "For all her screaming during practice, she was almost kind when it was just the two of us. She was a little gruff at first. Something about 'there are more dumb blonde fish in the sea'. But she took me to that therapist and she sat in the waiting room during my first appointment and when I came out in tears, she handed me a tissue and said, 'Man up, Lopez. We have Nationals in a few weeks. I don't want my head cheerleader to have puffy eyes for the camera crews.'"
Her impression of Sue sent her back straight and her shoulders back. She squeezed my fingers in hers and we snickered together over the woman that had both caused and solved some of our greatest problems.
"Do you still hate her?" I asked, curious.
She shook her head. "No. She's not my best friend, but I can't really cling to the past, you know? It's over. She apologized to me. Who am I not to accept?"
A glimmer of hope raged up from my gut. Maybe everything she'd been through had helped. Maybe the therapy had been for her what the meetings and Charlie had been for me. Solace, a clearing of the confusion. Maybe she was ready after all.
The thought that she might have her things sorted wrenched my abdomen so tightly that I nearly winced. Charlie's warning rang in my ears. I swallowed and clamped tighter down on her hand.
"What did you talk about?" I asked softly, carefully treading into deep water. "In therapy, I mean. What was it like?"
She hid a smile with a cough and shook her hair out. "You, mostly. And my parents. And… learning how to be honest. I never really realized how many lies I told myself in a day until someone asked me to tell the truth. It was good, for a while. It didn't change things at home, but it helped."
"Why did you go back?"
She let out a shallow breath, licking her lips as though they needed preparing. "Logically? I'm a minor. I had to. My parents could have gotten Burt in a lot of trouble for kidnapping or some garbage if I'd stayed with them after Daddy said I could come back. Honestly? I was hoping that they actually wanted me there. I was hoping they were sorry."
She touched her cheek absently, and I recalled the bruise that had been there the night I'd been discovered. I lifted my hand and cupped her chin, running the pad of my thumb across the spot. She leaned her face into my palm and smiled, knowing that I remembered and finding comfort in the touch.
"It was her, you know. Mamí. She hit me, not him."
"Why?"
Santana's eyes dropped to our hands. Somewhere along the way she'd laced our pinkies together. She "I told them about you. That I loved you, and you needed help. She told me I was going to hell and she hit me. Then she kicked me out of the house."
"You didn't have to do that," I argued, despite knowing that whatever I said now was useless.
"Yes I did," she countered vehemently, taking my hand from her face and bringing it down so she clasped both of mine in her lap. "You would have died, Britt. You don't know how scary it was, seeing you like that. You could barely… I did what I had to. It was worth it."
Reliving that night through her eyes was horrifying. I couldn't even imagine how I'd looked, what she might have been thinking, or the lengths to which she'd gone to make sure that I'd survived. It was a shaming experience, and I tried to pull away. She held me still.
"My father gave me the drugs you needed," she continued. "He didn't even question me. That's why I went back. Because I needed to know why he did that, even after my mother had told me to leave."
"Why, then?" I asked, the bitterness in my tone seeping through. He'd never been kind to me before.
"I didn't know," she shrugged, pulling at my hands until I was forced to sit closer. "Mamí was angry that I'd been allowed back at all, and no one spoke to anyone. I rode it out, went to my therapy sessions, focused on school and Cheerios and did everything I could to forget that you were gone. Then one day, I got home and she wasn't there. Daddy was on the couch, holding her note, and he was crying. Jesus Christ, my father was crying."
I tried to imagine the brick wall that was Dr. Lopez in tears. I couldn't imagine that man broken. I couldn't imagine him giving her the drugs she'd asked for, either, but I guess I had a habit of misjudging people.
"Can you imagine that?" she asked, almost reading my mind, her eyes getting wide at the happiness the memory brought her. "He was like… sobbing, B. He just broke into a million pieces and when he saw me there wasn't even a pause. He got up and threw his arms around me and hugged me. I swear to god, he's never hugged me like that in my entire life. Like I mattered. For the first time I didn't feel like a burden. I felt like an anchor."
I bit my lip and fought the urge to interrupt. You were always my anchor.
"He'd lost Martin, then Mamí. I think he realized that I was all he had left. And suddenly everything was different. He talked to me. We ate dinner together and he asked me about my day… He asked me about you."
My cheeks burned and I regretted, once again, believing that I understood the dynamics of Santana's relationships with her family.
"I didn't have much to tell him, though." She nudged my knees with hers and leaned in closer, so her face was a foot from mine. "Just what you sent back to Kurt. Then you stopped, and I thought… I thought you'd moved on. So I got my shit together and told my therapist what I wanted to do."
"What was that?" I lifted my eyes and met hers, and found she was smiling widely.
"Come here and get my girl," she replied, eyes shining. "Show you that even though we've been through hell and back, that I'll always love you. Britt, I want to be with you."
The electrical current passing between us surged and she closed the distance between us. My chest contracted as I watched her lips inch closer. I didn't close my eyes as they brushed first against my cheek, then dusted across to my lips. There they lingered, soft and delicate, testing me. And still I watched her, my pulse pounding an earthquake between us as my head fought against my heart.
Kiss her.
No, don't kiss her.
Fucking kissher!
I pressed my hungry lips to hers, and the jolt down my spine was the most thrilling thing I'd ever felt in my life. She hummed happily into my mouth and I pulled her closer, eagerly groping at her hands and yanking her into my lap so I could feel her against me. Her arms wrapped around my neck and when her chest pressed to mine, I could feel her own heart beating just as erratically. Her hands found my hair and fisted it at the nape my neck, holding me and claiming me and for an instant I forgot every reason I'd ever had to stay away.
"I thought I'd lost you," she mumbled into my mouth, pinning me against the back of the recliner. "When I saw you with her. I thought I was too late."
"Shhh…" I cupped her jaw in my hands and pulled her face away, so only our foreheads were touching. I inhaled sharply, catching my breath and looking deeply into her soulful eyes. "Don't—"
Out of the corner of my eye something shifted. I glanced over, and Charlie stood in the doorway, arms crossed angrily over his chest. I pulled back from Santana, and she turned to see what I was staring at. She locked eyes with Charlie, the giant angry bear in the living room, and she jumped out of my lap, yanking her short skirt down in the process.
"Don't let me interrupt," he mocked, glaring pointedly at me.
"Charlie, I…" I opened my mouth to make and excuse and he raised an eyebrow, calling me out on it before I'd said a word. I sighed and stood, inching closer to Santana and pulling her pinky into mine. I nudged her and gently introduced her. "This is Charlie. He's my sponsor… Charlie? This is Santana."
"I gathered that much from Erica's phone call," he said, acid brimming over each spat word. "It's nice to meet you, Santana. I've heard a lot about you. Now I think you need to go."
"Wait a min—"
Santana had been staring, frightened, at Charlie. She pulled on my pinky and shook her head. "I think he's right," she whispered. "I showed up unannounced. I surprised you. You should talk to him. I'll go."
I was torn between yelling at her for giving in to Charlie's bullying and hugging her. This girl was not the same girl I'd left in Lima. This girl was mature and clear headed, if a little nervous and overeager. I settled for a soft smile and a tight squeeze to her pinky.
"I'll call you later, okay?"
She nodded and stood on her toes to press a quick kiss to my cheek. "I'm staying at a motel downtown. Just for the night."
Charlie watched us as she pulled reluctantly away from me, our hands hanging entwined in the space between us. I let go, my arm falling uselessly to my side, and she inched past Charlie toward the door.
"Thank you for taking care of her, Charlie," she said, and cautiously stuck out her hand. He took it, and for a moment I thought he might break it in his anger. But the tension in his arm eased and he pumped it politely before letting her go.
"You're welcome."
She glanced back at me one last time before letting herself out the front door.
We both watched her go, the door clicking shut quietly while stood awkwardly. Charlie fidgeted angrily, bristling audibly. He finally turned, staring and pursing his lips.
"I'm not even angry that you basically broke my sister's heart," he began, and held up his hand when I tried to protest. "Because she's a big girl and knew exactly what she was getting herself into. Nevermind that I told you both that it was a bad idea to start with. Nevermind that I fucking warned her. I'm angry because, after all this time, you're still taking one step forward, two steps back."
He fell into the couch and it groaned beneath his weight. He pressed his hands to his face, combing through his beard and then running them through his hair. He pushed it out of his eyes and I could see how upset he was. Anger had been the only thing I'd seen, but there at the corners of his eyes was also disappointment. I sat back in the recliner, and even with Charlie's disappointment hanging over me, I wished Santana still there, her hands in my hair.
"She's not the same person she was before," I said, arguing feebly against something that hadn't even been said out loud. "She's different. She's better."
He looked up. "Are you, though?"
"Of course." It was a knee-jerk response, too quick, and I saw the skeptical cock of his eyebrow. "I am better. I'm in the program. I'm sober. I'm caught up in school."
Charlie let out a sigh and shook his head, heavy with regret. "If that's what you think, then I haven't been a very good sponsor to you."
"Charlie, you've been amazing!" I got up and went to sit next to him on the couch, punching him playfully in the shoulder and shaking my hand out when it bounced off his bulk. "How could you even say that?"
"The fact that you think you're better, that you've beaten this thing already? It means I haven't taught you what you need to know. This isn't an infection, Britt. You can't take a few antibiotics and call it cured. Addiction is worse than a cancer. You can fight it with everything you've got, and think that it's gone, but it can still creep up on you, years down the road. You'll live with this the rest of your life. Why do you want to make things harder for yourself when you're still in the thick of it?"
I looked down at my hands, agonizing over his words. "I don't think she'd make it harder."
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into him. I leaned against his side, my head on his chest, and wished I'd had a big brother like him growing up. I wished I could be this for Courtney. A solid, steady comfort.
"Maybe not, but she isn't going to make things easier, is she?"
"You don't know that."
"No," he conceded. "I don't. But I do know that when you're in the program, you have a responsibility to yourself that you can't fulfill if you're stuck with a responsibility to another person. You have to be completely selfish right now, Brittany. Do you think it's possible to be selfish with Santana around?"
I sat quietly against him, listening to his steady breathing. I didn't say anything, but he knew what my answer was.
"Hmm." He smiled and squeezed my arm. "I'm not saying that you shouldn't ever let her back into your life. I'm just saying that maybe you should wait a little while longer. Take the time that you need to be a different person. Don't let her determine how you recover. Be your own influence, you know? Decide for yourself how you want to live, then see if she fits into that puzzle."
The mental image of my life as a giant jigsaw emerged before I could stop it. I rearranged the pieces in my head. School, dance, Mom, Dad, Courtney… But there in the middle was a big Santana-shaped hole. Could I finish the puzzle without that piece?
"It's hard imagining a life without her, Charlie."
"You've spent the last seven months without her, though," he countered. "Yeah, I'm sure it was hard, but you did it. Maybe you got a little sidetracked with the Erica debacle, but you can see the right path clearly now, right?"
I wasn't sure that I did. Everything felt foggy, like I was trying to find that path in the middle of a storm. Everyone else was trying to tell me where to walk, shouting over one another, and I was struggling to sort out who really knew where to go. I wanted Santana. More than anything, I wanted her. I wanted her in my life, and I wanted her there while I was getting better to see it and be proud of me. But I knew that what Charlie said made sense, that I couldn't focus on me when she was there. Erica's warning still stuck with me. Maybe I was so stuck on what I'd felt for her in the past that I wasn't looking at what we might have in the future. Maybe our love hadn't been as real as I'd thought. Maybe we couldn't be happy together, like we thought we were before.
"You have one life, Britt," Charlie said, interrupting my thoughts. "You get a lot of second chances to fix your mistakes, but third chances are rare birds. Think about that before you make any decisions."
His words weighed in my chest, stewing. We sat there a while longer, both of us thinking about the other but not saying it aloud. He'd said everything he could to push me in the direction he thought was right. It was up to me now.
"Can I borrow your phone?"
He handed it to me and I took it gratefully, walking into the foyer while I typed the number I'd always known by heart. The second ring was cut short, and she answered.
"Hello?" I could hear the hotel room cable playing in the background, a laugh track slowly dying as she turned down the volume.
"San, it's me. Can you meet me?"
I heard her breath hitch happily and there was rustling as she reached for a pen. "Anywhere."
I sighed, wondering once again if I was doing the right thing. "Tomorrow, after I get out of school. Three-thirty. At the park where we took Courtney and Wes. Do you remember it?"
The smile on her face came through the phone. "Yeah, B. I remember it. I'll see you tomorrow."
I gripped the phone tighter, chewing on my lip and nodding, even though she couldn't see me. "See you tomorrow, San."
I adjusted the strap of my heavy backpack over my shoulder when I stepped out of Erica's car. She rolled down her window as I walked up the grassy, sloping hill into the park and called after me.
"Good luck, Britt."
I turned and looked back, waiting for a biting remark or a hint of sarcasm. But she smiled at me, genuine in her well wishes. I darted back to her and opened the door I'd just closed, leaning into the car to wrap one arm around her shoulder. Surprised, she hesitated a moment before returning the hug.
"You're a good friend, Erica," I said, righting myself and closing the door again, speaking through the open window.
She shrugged and turned the keys in the ignition. "It's a gift and a curse. Call me if you need a ride home."
She drove off, leaving me on the knoll. I climbed nervously over the hill, making my way through the trails. At the end of the bend, the trees opened onto the soccer field, and across the expanse were the benches we'd sat on. Santana was already there, watching a couple of kids kicking a ball around. She didn't see me there, hidden by the grove of trees, and I stared at her from a distance.
Her leg bobbed lightly, crossed over her knee. She was so calm, relaxed and leaning with her elbows draped over the back of the bench. Her eyes followed the ball back and forth across the field, the kids kicking it lost in their game and ignoring her presence. In true Santana form, she laughed when they tripped over one another and wrestled angrily on the ground. I smirked, glad that some things hadn't changed.
Pushing past the shrubs I walked across the field, muscles tense. She saw me coming and stood, grinning and holding her hand out to me as I approached. I took it, and she squeezed.
"Your palms are sweating," she observed. "Nervous? Should I be worried?"
I sat down on the bench, my knees weak from the effort of holding it all in. She followed and curled her leg beneath her to turn and face me, her hand still in mine.
"Thanks for coming." I ignored her question, hoping not to upset her unnecessarily. "I wanted to talk more yesterday, but I think we were a little… distracted."
Santana blushed and covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed. "Yeah, sorry about that."
"I wasn't exactly fending you off with a stick," I shrugged, leaning back against the bench. "It was nice."
"Nice?" Her eyebrow shot up. "That's it?"
"Yeah," I teased. "Nice. Nice to feel wanted again. You'd think that being in a program where everyone knows I'm an addict would make me less tense. It doesn't."
She ran her fingers through my veil of hair, pushing it behind my ear so she could see me. "Tell me about it. Your program. I talked so much yesterday, I didn't even get a chance to hear about you."
Her head leaned against her fist, propped up on the back of the bench. She stared, tracing the outline of my profile with her eyes. It really was amazing how easily she could expose me.
"I'm the youngest person the group's ever had," I began, watching the boys on the field, feeling her eyes on me. "Charlie says I scare them, so they're kind of… well, they don't really talk to me. Since I moved here, it's been just him and me."
"And Erica." There was no accusation in her voice. Sadness, maybe, that I'd let someone else in to a place that she thought only she belonged.
I closed my eyes, mortified. "And Erica. She was a good friend. Is a good friend. I don't think I could ever have been more than that with her. Not really."
Soft fingers found my hair again and she tugged lightly on my ear. "No one's blaming you for needing someone to lean on."
"But I shouldn't have leaned on her," I countered. "Not like that. I thought I needed her. I was wrong."
"What do you need, B?"
It was a fair enough question, something I'd asked myself again and again in the months I'd lived in Akron. In the beginning, the answer had been pills. But after a while, with Charlie at my back, the answer changed. Instead of pills, I found myself needing other things. Acceptance. Happiness. Balance.
"Charlie, mostly," was what passed my own surprised lips. "He's been the only one here that's never looked at me like I was broken."
"He seems like a really great guy."
I smiled. "The best."
"He doesn't like me very much, does he?"
"It's not that," I said, shaking my head. "He's worried about me, that's all."
Santana nodded and bumped her leg against my thigh. She slipped her pinky through mine effortlessly. "I'm worried about you, too, B. I think you came here to tell me something that you're scared of saying. And I don't want you to be scared of whatever it is you need to say."
I turned to her, following the curve of her jaw down to her chin, up across her lips, where the upper curled into a smile while she watched the boys playing. The bridge of her perfect nose gave way to a sculpted brow, which shadowed her unreadable eyes. They seemed both sad and hopeful. Not resigned, like she thought she knew what was coming, but neither were they expectant.
"You're my best friend," I said, and her smile curled a little higher. "Since we were eight years old, you've been the best thing I've had in my life."
"That goes both ways, B." She looked at me and I searched her dark eyes for something that might guide me in this, make things easier. But I knew that it wasn't up to her how this panned out. I could only hope that she'd take my decision and understand.
"You're my best friend," I repeated, emphasizing it, hoping she'd hold onto that. "And then you were more, and between the two of us, things got so screwed up. I took the easy way out of our problems and this is where I ended up. I'm an addict, San. Recovering, sure, but I'm still an addict."
She held tighter to my pinky, letting the smile fall a bit, but not entirely. "We both have things we need to work out. I'll be the first to admit that a lot my stupidity caused you the pain you thought you needed to hide. I hurt you, and you reacted. No one will ever blame you for that."
"No." I inched closer, needing to feel the warmth of her body against my thigh, for strength. "A lot of people get hurt every day, Santana. None of them drown their pain in pills. What I did, I did to myself. And it's taken me a really long time to understand how I need to live without that as a crutch."
I stopped, licked my lips and stared at our hands. Her pinky linked so easily with mine, so completely and with such finality. Like this was the only thing her pinky was ever made to do. I swallowed hard, my other hand coming down and lifting out entwined digits to my mouth. I kissed her knuckle delicately, not breaking our locked gaze. The corners of her eyes creased with her smile and I clung to her hand as I set it back in my lap.
"There are twelve steps in Narcotics Anonymous," I told her, tracing the lines in her palm. "I've only been through a handful of them. All the damage I did to myself is still fresh, San. I'm an addict, and I have to treat myself like one. Charlie says that I need to be selfish, think of myself and my recovery like a puzzle. I have to put the important pieces together first, and then when everything else has settled, find out where you fit."
A slow breath passed her lips and realized she'd been holding it. Our hands had gripped tighter together, so neither of us had noticed how hard we were holding on until she let the breath out. I eased the pressure on her, but she kept holding, afraid to let me go.
"Do I have a place in your puzzle, Britt?"
The question sat suspended between us, electricity surging through our hands, holding it up and leaving me breathless. My options weighed down on my shoulders.
"I have to be selfish," I said. "That's what everyone keeps telling me. Think about myself, and how I want to live my life. So I'm going to be selfish, Santana. I'm going to be selfish, and ask you for a favor."
"Anything." It came out in a whisper, sincere and perfect.
"Time. Six months, to finish a year of sobriety. Give me that, so I can know for sure that I'm on the right path. Six months, and I'm yours. Always."
She pulled me into her and held me, her hand on my back. She clung there, holding herself upright as she breathed deeply into my hair.
"I'd give you six years, if you asked me for it."
The swelling in my chest betrayed me and I choked out a sob. I eased her away and pressed my lips to hers, my hands cupping her jaw and holding her there until I had to break for air. I inhaled, taking in the familiar scent of her as I leaned my forehead against hers. Her tears ran in thick rivers down her cheeks, falling into the deep dimples of her happiest smile. I wiped them away with my thumbs and kissed each dimple in turn before returning to her lips and lingering there, feeling her breath against them as she whispered again and again, "I love you, I love you…"
"You told me once that I'd find someone who could give me everything I deserved." I pulled her to me – this girl I'd loved since I was eight years old, my soulmate – and kissed her. She smiled and wove her fingers through mine, bringing my hands to her lips and pressing them to my knuckles, remembering.
"I think we've found each other now."
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#Fin#
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A/N: I don't know how to thank you all for the constant and amazing support over the course of this story. It's been emotional upheaval for everyone involved, and I know I killed a lot of you for a while. I only hope that this ending - the one I'd planned all along - was worth the pain.
I owe a thousand thanks to Hester (jugstheclown), the most wonderful beta a girl could have. She's been an immovable mountain of security and reassurance through all this. ILY, Hester.
There will be a short epilogue, so stayed tuned.