So, I'm sort of glad to announce that the infamous Part 2 of this gigantic fanfic that has taken over my life will end with next week's chapter. I say sort of glad because while I feel it's an important part of the story, writing these last two chapters was hard. I'm sure reading them won't be much easier; again, thanks to those of you who have stuck around. Better times are coming, I swear. Or, rather, we are going back to better times.
They take a walk on the beach around sunset, per Jake's suggestion; let him stay alone with the kids. There aren't many people around; this ocean isn't for swimming. They didn't even bother to change into beach clothes, just jeans and sweats. Everything is silent, and Santana and Quinn afraid to break the silence.
A tree trunk has washed up ashore and Santana, a few steps ahead of Quinn, goes around it in circles, observing. It's a breathtaking sight; the wood bright red where it has split open. How can I compete with that?, Quinn wonders. She remembers Kitty, complaining about her husband ogling other women, but Quinn's losing Santana's attention to an old piece of wood. But it's not just that, she thinks. It's every tree, every floating butterfly, every wave, like Santana is so in love with the world that there isn't much room left for Quinn, who has not valleys and clouds and the songs of birds to offer.
It gets dark and they get tired, enough to sit on the sand, close to each other but not close enough to touch, the water kissing their clothes, making them heavy. Each busies herself with her own thoughts; the echoing water means they don't have to talk. They wouldn't know what to say if they did, they have nothing to say to each other, except maybe forgive me, but neither would really mean it, no one is really sorry about what's happened.
Maybe if they were truly sorry they would have to apologize to every one, beginning with Finn and ending with themselves, for ever thinking this could work. The thing is, neither of them feels like they owe anyone anything, for taking what life offered, and taking and taking and never leaving anything behind. For taking happiness and taking love and pleasure without regret, for taking with thirst what, at least Santana, felt she'd been given so little of since the time she had set foot on this earth.
Quinn thinks about her life with Santana, and though she wouldn't believe it, her wife is thinking about the same thing. Did we do it all wrong? Did we get our hopes up too easily? Was it selfish? Was it stupid? Am I even in love anymore? Does love even matter? Can you live without it?
"Yes, you can," Santana says out-loud.
Then why do I feel like I'm dying?
Santana watches a group of birds near the shore, the only living creatures near them. Of course, Quinn thinks, even these stupid, common birds are more interesting than her. They are racing the water, racing against the waves, like they're trying not to get their feet wet. A game, a game Quinn would find funny under any circumstances other than this.
Santana taps her on the shoulder. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"Wanna race?"
"What? Where?"
Santana shrugs. "To the dock."
"OK."
They run with their feet inside the water, not caring that they're getting their clothes wet, not caring that they're not getting very far ahead. Santana knows she'd beat her wife without trying on solid ground, so she goes deeper into the water and nudges Quinn toward the sand, so they're even, and this time they're both trying their hardest, neither too far ahead of the other. Santana feels the cool breeze against her face beginning to draw a smile, and Quinn smiles upon seeing her too, and wider when she realizes she's going to reach the dock first, if only by a few steps. She doesn't slow down, but throws her arm back so that Santana can grab a hold of her hand, and when they reach they destination, Quinn pulls her along, until Santana wraps her arms around her and spins her into the air. They're both laughing and they don't know how it happens, except that next thing Santana knows they've both lost sight of the ground spinning beneath them, and then they're on the sand, a crumpled mess, and Quinn's giggles have turned into a torrent of tears that she can't stop no matter how hard she's trying.
Santana takes a good look at her and knows immediately it's not injury that's making her cry. She's not hurt, but she's sobbing so hard, maybe hoping Santana will think it's because she's in pain, forgetting she knows enough about the subject to tell the difference between a physical ache and one that isn't.
Santana cradles her for what seems like hours, feeling intense pity slowly turning into helplessness and frustration, because Quinn won't stop crying and she can't seem to help, but mostly because she can't for a minute pretend she doesn't know what this is about.
"Quinn, I knew our life was going to be like this. I told you so very clearly."
The statement is enough to make Quinn stop, and pull away from her wife. "But then why did you-"
"Because it seemed to me like it was worth it. I knew I couldn't save you, I knew I couldn't change your life... but I sure as hell wanted to try. I wanted to be what you needed. It hurts that I'm not."
Quinn starts crying again. "But if you're not what I need, then what do I need?"
Santana shrugs. "You need you. You only ever needed you. I realized it that day, when you were dancing on the bed, and I was so scared, that you would figure it out, figure out you didn't need me, that you had your own wings to fly, your own feet to dance."
"If I do, where are they, Santana?" she sobs. "I can't even dance anymore."
"What do you mean you can't?"
"I mean I don't know-"
"Get up."
"What?"
"Get up."
"What for?"
"You're gonna dance. Right now."
"Dance what?"
"Whatever you want. Hip-hop, tap, the foxtrot. I don't care."
"But... there's no music."
Santana points to the waves; now that it's night, they're crashing louder than ever. "You need any more music than that?"
Quinn's mind goes back to her roots as she gets up tentatively, her feet shaping into first position. Ballet. She takes a leap, and midair, remembers the one fact that matters more than anything in dancing: that there is no room for doubt, no room for anything except absolute certainty, and knows, at once, why she stopped dancing.
Her fall reminds Santana of the time she broke a crystal vase as a child, and wanting of so desperately to put it back together but realizing she didn't know how, and that even if she did, it wouldn't do any good. It would still be broken, just held together by thin, spidery veins. She's the one who cries, now.
"I don't know, Quinn. I don't know."
"You don't know what?"
"I don't know what's wrong with us."
"There's nothing wrong with you. Whatever's wrong here, it's wrong with me. Look at me, Santana. I'm a disaster. I've always been a disaster. An awful wife, an awful mother. How in the world did you agree to marry me?"
"I love you," Santana says simply, and Quinn can't believe this is the same woman who once had such a hard time saying those words.
"How can you love me? You're sane, you're healthy, you're-"
"I'm not any different for loving you, Quinn. And I don't love you because you cook dinner or because you help the kids with their homework or because you look after Jake. I told you this once. I love you because you fall, and because you cry and because you sleep all the time."
"Santana, those are the worst parts of me. That's the person I never wanted to be, the one I don't even love."
"Then we're gonna find a version of yourself that you can love."
"Oh, so that's why she didn't want to dance."
"When?"
"At the wedding."
"She didn't? At all?"
"Nope."
Santana sighs. "I don't know what to do, Jake."
"She's not your responsibility, you know."
"She's my wife."
"Your wife, not your kid."
"Jake, I asked you to help me, if you're not going to do that, then you can just-"
Jake interrupts her. "Find her something to do."
"What?"
"Something to do. A hobby, or a job or something. Like when she used to give dance classes."
"She's not going to want to do that again."
"Something different, then."
Santana is at a loss. Her brother frowns at her. "What?"
"It's just that... she hates everything."
Jake rolls his eyes. "You're being dumb. Not even I hate everything and I'm a fucking basket case. That's the whole point of this. At the hospital, when they found us jobs or activities we liked... it made us want to..." He struggles with the words.
"Live?"
"Not so much. Maybe not want to die? Or hold on to life a little longer?"
"I can't think of a single thing she likes. I mean, aside from reality shows and reading those stupid magazines-"
"I always thought she'd make a good event planner."
"Huh?"
Jake shrugs, like he just said the most normal thing in the planet. "She likes parties-"
"Liked parties."
"Nah, she still likes them. Just not her ex-husband's wedding. And she likes planning things, and she's got flawless taste. It's something new, but it's a world she's comfortable in."
"I'm not sure she's that comfortable in it anymore."
"She'll be working with strangers. No one's gonna judge her."
"Sounds like you've got this all planned out."
Jake shrugs immodestly. "It's all coming to me as we speak."
"Keep going, then."
"Well, I was thinking... she could interview with Maisie Henderson."
"No way."
"We're not going to be able to arrange an interview with anyone else. You know any other event planners?"
"No."
"Then?"
"I fucking hate the Hendersons, you know I do. I haven't talked to them since grandmother died. Can't you do it?"
Jake raises his eyebrows. "Yeah. Cause Maisie's really gonna wanna talk to the guy who's been in an insane asylum for the past ten years."
"See? She's a judgmental bitch."
"Santana, you're a successful woman with a Ph.D., and, as far as she's concerned, the only heir to the Avner fortune. Why wouldn't she want to talk to you?"
Santana sighs. "You think she'll care that I'm gay?"
"Who knows? Maybe? I mean, you don't have to tell her Quinn's your wife. Just say she's a friend."
It's the first time she's ever been in this position, and she wonders how she let Santana and Jake talk her into it. But they had known, all along, that she wouldn't be able to refuse both of them, that's why they'd insisted on talking to her together. The thing is, they're not here now, waiting with her.
There is some excitement to it, she would have never agreed if there wasn't, but what she's feeling right now is closer to pure horror. She's here, alone and with the realization that she doesn't have Santana, Finn, her children or Jake, that she never really had anyone, that no one ever has anyone, because the most important moments in life, you have to face by yourself, scared shitless and in deafening silence.
You can't have anyone, because no matter how much they love you, they can't come into your world, and maybe that's what hurts most of all, that after searching for love far and wide, it fails you at the time when you were certain you'd have it. It builds and thrives on happiness, but vanishes with sadness, Quinn thinks. Everything vanishes, in sadness and fear. Everything except for yourself.
It's all like a dream, walking into that exquisite office, being greeted by this amazing woman. She knows she doesn't look nervous, she's the queen of pretending, and right now she's pretending she's not even inside herself, but somewhere else in the room, analyzing her own body and the situation from a distance, as if all this was happening to somebody else. She answers questions accurately and in a monotone, fairly confident it's going alright until they come to the question that stumps her.
"So, Quinn, what are your hobbies?"
It's the simplest of questions, really. Except that, when one doesn't have an answer, the simplicity of the question ceases to be of relevance. It shouldn't take anyone this long to answer, and she remembers Jake's advice: Say the first thing that pops into your mind. The thing is, the first thing she thinks to say is sleeping, as that is the only hobby she appears to have. Sleeping, watching TV, eating whatever junk food comes across her path.
Has her life really become this sad?
They both act normally when Santana picks her up, chatting amicably and even deciding to go somewhere nice for lunch, a steakhouse Quinn's been wanting to try for a long time.
Their waitress is young, probably around twenty, with skin darker than Santana's and bright, green eyes. She looks busy, overwhelmed and in a bad mood, and isn't even pretending to be nice to either of them. Quinn tries to ignore this as she looks through the menu, trying to find something that looks like it might be good for her health, but gives up almost immediately and orders a mixed platter of curly and sweet potato fries, mozzarella sticks and onion rings.
"You're not gonna order steak?"
Quinn looks up at her wife. "No. I don't think so."
"What's the point of coming to a steakhouse, then?"
Quinn shrugs and the waitress looks at them impatiently. Santana sighs. "I'll have a rib-eye, well-done, please."
Quinn raises her eyebrows as the waitress leaves, before she has to witness any more of this. "You're eating meat?"
"Well, we're at a fucking steakhouse, I figure somebody has to."
"Santana, I'm a vegetarian, remember?"
"Yeah, so am I. But since you insisted on coming here, I thought Jake had rubbed off on you or something. Besides, you appear to be a vegetarian only when it's convenient."
"Did Jake tell you I ate meat the other day? Because-"
"No, he didn't tell me anything. I just thought that, since you wanted to come here and you know I don't eat meat, you were at least going to order some for yourself. Otherwise, what's the point, right? If you were just going to order something you could have had anywhere else?"
Quinn wonders if they've reached the point in this relationship where she has to apologize for what she eats, but before she can say anything, the waitress arrives with their plates. Santana begins chewing on her steak menacingly, while Quinn gingerly picks at her basket, in disbelief at the fact that only five minutes ago she was craving this food and now it's just making her want to throw up.
Still, she forces herself to eat some, because no one is saying anything and she doesn't want to bring attention to the obvious fact that she hates the food in front of her. She won't give Santana the satisfaction of having ruined this for her, and she knows that if this silence goes on for any longer, she'll start crying.
"I didn't get it," she says, breaking the silence.
"I know."
Quinn's taken aback by this. "You know? How do you know? I don't even know."
"If you don't know, then why did you say it?"
"Because I felt like I hadn't, but apparently you... Were you spying on me?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Quinn. I don't have time for that. And please hurry up and eat your food, I have to get to work."
Quinn stuffs a handful of whatever she can grab with one hand into her mouth, washes it down with some lemonade. "So you were just that certain from the start that I wasn't gonna get it, were you?"
"Quinn, you didn't even try."
"How would you know? You weren't even there, you didn't even-"
"I called Mrs. Henderson to see how it had gone-"
"I thought you said you weren't spying on me."
"Please lower your voice, the whole restaurant can-"
"No, it's obvious you didn't trust me to do well, and look, you were right."
Quinn's eyes are filling with tears that are threatening to spill, and Santana is looking at her with an expression that very clearly says Don't you dare.
Don't you dare to what? Cry in public? Quinn wonders. No, she won't give Santana the satisfaction of that either. A tear or two slip out and she wipes at them just as their waitress comes to pick up their half-eaten plates. She looks back an forth between them rudely, there is no way she missed the argument and seems completely unmoved by Quinn's tears. Quinn wonders if she comes across this often, and gets up quickly.
"Excuse me. I'm going to the ladies room."
Santana rolls her eyes, but knows she can't go after her and make even more of a scene. In the bathroom, Quinn splashes her face with cold water and takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to regain a sense of calm.
When she gets back to the table, everything's been cleared, and Santana is sitting there, a look of repressed fury on her face. "Can we leave now?", she asks coldly, taking out her wallet.
"Don't worry about it," Quinn says, waving the waitress over with a fifty dollar bill. Santana looks mildly surprised but doesn't say anything. Quinn never carries any money with her, partly because she has no money of her own, and partly because she doesn't need to, since she hardly ever goes out. But Jake had pushed the crumpled fifty into her hand this morning before she left for the interview, almost as if he had known she would need it.