Hey there, dearests!
As I said last time; I'm back on track with my writing, just in time for school to start and for us to get our ipads for school so that I can sit in chemistry class (which bores me to no end) and simply google all the answers to the tasks and then spend the entire time writing. Other than that, I'm busy searching for a job and researching how Canada has been handling Corona and everything. If anyone knows anything it would be great if you could PM me... I'm thinking about going to Canada for the second half of the school year in January/February but my parents and I wanted to find some information about the current situation over there first. So, firsthand information would be great:)
Now, as for this chapter, I just wanted to say that this took me a veeeery long time to finish and I really struggled through the first half or something like that -as always, reviews would be great! Your feedback is just always aMaZiNg!
Thanks for all that love and kindness you're sending. Giving that right back through virtual (and social-distanced) kisses and hugs!
You're the best!
Stay safe and healthy, everyone!

(chapter title is the same-titled song by Idina Menzel)
(I can only advice you to go check that song out. lOvE it!)

Started writing: 11.08.2020

Finished writing: 29.08.2020

Chapter 21
Perfume And Promises

Santana.

The front door opens to reveal a super-annoyed looking Rachel, holding two of my summer cardigans in her hands as she leans out of the small space of the closet to keep the front door open. My sister is surrounded with jackets and shawls, hats and gloves that are scattered around her on the floor and she peaks up at me from slightly narrowed eyes with the darkest circles that I've ever seen underneath them.

"Move, move, move!" She snaps at me, almost toppling over. "I can't hold two doors open at the same time and not drop your stupid cardigans!"
I raise an eyebrow. "Geez, Rachel, calm down. It's not my fault that you have to do this—be a bitch to Mom if you need to be one."
Quickly, I shuffle out of the doorway and roll my eyes as Rachel slams the door shut behind me. The faint sound of talking echoes through the hallway and I turn towards my sister with a questioning look.

She doesn't answer, though—only scoffs, rolls her eyes, and looks at the cardigans in her hands.

"Do you think you'll need those in the foreseeable future?"
"Um… do you want me to freeze to death?"

"I was just asking," Rachel grits out, tossing the cardigans aside.

"Phew," I turn away. "Someone's in a good mood today."
Before Rachel can even open her mouth, I've already slipped past her and make my way across the hallway into the living room. I can still hear her mutter something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like 'stupid, fucking closet. What did I ever do to you?' And I can't help but roll my eyes.

In the living room, Mom and Cassie are sitting on the couch, steaming coffee cups in their hands and-

"Cake!" I shout in delight, rushing past the two women to snatch a fork off the coffee table and sink it into the cream frosting of the cake. Red Velvet has always been my favorite.

Beside me, Mom and Cassie exchange an amused look.

"Hi, Cassie," I manage between bites and Cassie grins.

"Hi, Satan."
Mom's brow furrows. "I'd appreciate it if you stopped calling my daughter a devil, Cassie."
"And I'd follow that demand," says Cassie, eyes twinkling. "If you'd appreciated our friendship by calling one of your daughters Cassandra, but you didn't and thus, I owe you nothing."
The fork pauses halfway in front of my face. "Wait, you actually wanted one of us to be named like you?"

"Of course. Cassandra is a perfect name—it links you close to me—and I'm practically famous."

Mom laughs. "Yeah, sure. Three autographs a month—that's what they call famous now."

"Oh, shut it, Shelby Corcoran!" Cassie actually reaches out to pinch my mother's thigh. "You're a singer, I'm a dancer. If the roles were reversed, I would be Emma-Watson-and-Angelina-Jolie-level famous. But you had to go off and beget these little brats."

"Well, I'd take my little brats over fame any day," Mom tucks me into her side and presses a kiss to my left temple, holding me close.

"Thanks, Mom," I murmur. "Sweet of you."

But Mom only laughs and ruffles my hair and my heart jumps a little. This is an improvement. This is a very new improvement. Almost as if it'd happened overnight- my brows knit together a little. What exactly happened while I was in my room with Puck last night, wondering who the hell was ringing the doorbell? What exactly did Mom fail to tell me?

I let my eyes wander over my mother's face swiftly and the slight wrinkles on her forehead are almost gone -makes her look younger by five years. If not ten. She's gorgeous- and the smile that's currently making her eyes sparkle is just so… her that I can't help but smile back. She looks, for the first time in weeks, genuinely happy and unrestrained. She looks satisfied with herself if I'm reading her correctly.

Tucking a foot underneath her, Mom leans forward to grab her coffee cup off the table. And-

"You've taken off the ring."

I immediately just want to slap myself as Mom's smile wavers a little. Did I really have to bring that up right now?

Her face grows slightly tighter than before. "I have."

"Why?" I can't stop myself from asking.

"Because," Cassie interferes before Mom can so much as open her mouth. "She's finally come to the conclusion that your father, while I'm sure still a wonderful father to you" -I snort, eyebrows raised in suspicion- "is—or was? Shelby, what is it, now? – an asshole as a husband."

She leans forward, much like Mom did seconds ago, and takes her phone from the table. "And we're gonna try and see how much we can get for that wedding ring and then go on vacation with that money."

Mom blinks. "Cassie, you do realize that was a joke, right?"

"Yep," Cassie grins. "But I've allowed myself to turn it into seriousness and now, we're doing it."

I shrug. "I wouldn't mind going on vacation."

"I wouldn't mind either," says Mom, always the voice of reason. "But I don't think that David could afford something worth a vacation back in the college days."

"Yeah, but you're forgetting, Shelby, that it's your ring we're selling."

Mom knits her brows together in a frown. "But if we sold my wedding ring on the internet, we'd be informing the whole world of our separation—or divorce, whatever."

She says it almost casually as if wanting it to be missed and, at first, I don't really get the impact of her words. But then, my eyes widen. "Divorce? Is Dad filing for one?"

Mom shakes her head. "No, I'm filing for one."

And I would've loved to say something to that but in that moment, the door gets flung open and Rachel stands there, face pinched into an annoyed scowl as she grits out, "Where do I have to put these stupid jackets? There's no room in the second closet upstairs."

And Mom shoots out of her seat, slams the coffee mug onto the table -without spilling any coffee at all- and strides across the room in a matter of seconds. Without making a lot of sound, I might add. (I've been thinking that perhaps her previous job wasn't a fucking famous (Broadway) actress but rather a fucking crazy Ninja warrior.)

Her fingers lock around Rachel's wrist and she drags her across the room, closer to the door and while I can't see her face, I can see Rachel's. And Rachel's shows nothing but shock.

Mom doesn't even try to lower her voice.

"You listen to me right now, Rachel Corcoran," she barks. "I've been extremely generous with my punishments till now because I was thinking you're still hungover and have a headache. But this attitude, Rachel- I'm full of it! Do you hear me? I am full—of—it! You'll finish your chores and then you'll start on that essay. And no complaints! I swear to God, Rachel, that'll be an additional 1000 words for every groan I hear. Understood?"

Rachel nods, her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes widened. Then, she turns around, trying (and failing) to escape Mom's hand that lands on her behind with a sharp swat.

When the door falls close behind her, Mom turns again with a roll of her eyes. "That girl."

She walks across the room and sits down next to me, taking her coffee cup on the way down. "She's had that attitude all day long."

Cassie murmurs something neither Mom nor I understand, and Mom waves a hand dismissively, almost as if saying Cassie's input's not worth asking for—which it probably isn't, not in this area. After all, there is a reason that the blonde doesn't have any children.

"Rachel probably has a killer headache," I say, snuggling back into my mother's arms. "And this is her first hangover. Cut her some slack."

But I can feel Mom shaking her head behind me. "No, this time there's no cutting her some slack. She broke the rules and she endangered herself and now, she's just lashing out because she's not happy about her punishment. But she's not a kid anymore and I think she should be able to handle a headache if she was able to get herself drunk as well; don't you think?"

Cassie raises her eyebrows in what could be both agreement and disagreement.

"Damn, Mom," I can't stop myself from saying. "That's… cruel."

Mom rolls her eyes. "It's a punishment, sweetie, it's not meant to be nice."

She takes another sip from her coffee and raises an eyebrow at me, glancing just over the rim of her cup. It's one of those absolutely iconic Shelby-Corcoran-looks that can make you both want to run for your life and cry from laughing. Right now, it's the former.

So, I quickly stand up from the couch and push past the coffee table. "I'm gonna go and get some homework done now."

"Homework?" Mom perks up.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Mom. Homework. Math."

"Oh," she deflates. Math isn't one of her strong suits. "Well, let me know when you need some help with history or English, then."

"You're such a nerd for sure," I can hear Cassie say even when I'm already halfway out the door—and I can't help but laugh a little at that because—yeah, Mom's a total nerd. She's a sucker for history and she absolutely loves to help Rachel and I with our assignments -if only to point out all the mistakes and shower us with dates and facts that tend to lengthen our essays by a good 200 words- and sometimes, it can be quite annoying. But neither Rachel nor I have it in us to tell her so; it's just too wholesome how she gets all giddy over neatly written, perfectly informative history assignments.

It's about four hours later that I finally find the time to sit down and start on my Math homework. Cassie left a good three hours ago when Mom announced she was going to cook dinner and then I got stuck on Disney+ and Hercules and couldn't get myself to do anything until Mom walked in almost one and a half hours later, switching off the TV and pulling me with her into the kitchen to eat dinner. And dinner was extremely uncomfortable. There was Rachel staring at her plate for almost ten minutes before finally saying that she might need another aspirin (she's always that way when she's not feeling well; trying to hide the fact that she needs medication and stuff) and there was Mom reminding her once again of how she'd earned herself an additional 2000 words by her attitude today. And there was Mom glancing over at me, my plate, me, my plate, me… over and over again until I realized that I hadn't even finished it halfway before putting down my cutlery. It's what I used to do when I slipped into the kind-of-anorexia behavior four years ago by intention—only that, this time, I didn't even notice that I was doing it.

Needless to say, dinner was tense. And afterwards I really needed a hot shower and after that hot shower, I really needed to finish that Hercules movie with Mom and then, well then, it was already 9:15 and I hadn't even started on my homework. Which is why I'm now sitting on my bed, propped up against the wall and with my legs drawn close to my chest, to dive into the wonders of Algebra 2. At 9:30 pm. My head is already hurting.

But then, just when I'm about to start joggling down some notes, the door to my room opens and-

"Rachel?" I sit up a little. "Is everything okay?"

"Sure, sure," my sister says but she runs a hand over her forehead with an exasperated sigh and closes the door behind her by sliding it halfway down. "I just- well, I can't fall asleep. I'm just laying there and staring at the ceiling and my head hurts and can I sleep in your bed?"

I blink, slightly taken aback. "Uh… sure."

There's just enough time for me to bring my notes and Math book into safety before Rachel plops down beside me and snuggles close into my arms. "Today was awful."

"You were awful," but I still press a kiss into her dark hair and Rachel chuckles quietly.

"I had a killer headache and Mom gave me all that stuff to do—don't blame me."

"But it's so your fault, sis. You drank—your headache. You broke the rules—your punishment."

Rachel's head sinks against my shoulder as she glares up at me with her lips pursed. "Can we just not talk about this right now?"

The fingers of her left hand are playing with the corner of my notepad, crumpling the page a little and smoothing it out. She is about to say something—I can feel it. It's on the tip of her tongue, she's just trying to put it into words. The right ones. She tilts her head forwards, looks at my illegible scribbling, feigning interest in Algebra for a second…

"Mom's taken off the ring."

I nod. "I noticed."

Rachel stills for a moment, staring into void. Then she says, quietly, "Do you think that's a good thing? Is she, like, over him? Or is she angry at him?"

She twists in my arms to look at me, her eyes wide and hopeful as if waiting for me to give her all the answers she's looking for. I almost scoff at that—as if I had any more knowledge or wisdom to share on separations than her.

"I don't think she's over him," I say after a moment. "That takes a while, right? At least that's what all those newly-single-woman-gets-over-him-and-becomes-strong-and-independet-shit series say and that's basically my only resource. I just think she's—moving forward. Or maybe she's had enough of the ring."

Rachel tilts her head forward to indicate a nod, but her brows remain tightly knit together. "Dad was here tonight."

I grit my teeth. "I know."

"I think he said something to her- I-I don't remember though. Perhaps that's the reason."

"Yeah," I murmur. "Perhaps."

I still can't get over the fact that I missed that whole ordeal although I was wide awake. But it was 12:45 a.m. and if I had walked out of my room, Mom would've wanted to know why I was still awake and then Noah and I probably would've been screwed. So, instead of standing up and seeing what was going on, we kissed and cuddled and stayed completely oblivious to the goings-on down the hallway.

"Santana?"

I blink, slowly pulling myself from my thoughts, looking down at my younger sister. "Mmh?"

But when she opens her mouth to ask another question -one that, judging from the look on her face, has been bugging her for quite some time now- the door to my room opens and puts an abrupt halt to our conversation.

"Rachel!" is the only thing she says before stepping to the side and pointing into the hallway. "Now!"

And Rachel ducks her head and climbs out of my bed, rushing out of the door with a muffled "Goodnight."

Mom stares after her for a second, shaking her head. Then, she turns to me. A small smile curls the corners of her lips upwards as she slowly, if not hesitantly, enters the room. She closes the door behind her. I shift on my place in my bed. She's staying for a while; she wants to talk. Usually, she never closes the door.

"First of all," she says and all I can think is diving right into it, aren't we? "I think you've earned yourself this little something back."

She reaches into the pocket of her jeans and hands me my phone, face twitching in amusement when she sees the surprise in my eyes. But her face quickly molds into seriousness as she sits down on the edge of my bed. "You're doing so great, Santana, do you know that? You're being so considerate and you're trying to protect Rachel and- sweetie, I wouldn't know what I'd do without you, sometimes."

Her fingers graze the back of my hand before she slowly takes my hand into hers. "And I get that you're frustrated and tensed up, I really do. Don't think I don't ever feel that way because I do, Santana, all the time. But I like to pride myself with the fact that I don't always let it show. Because, and listen to me on that one, sweetie, you can feel any way you want all the time and there's no right or wrong because those are your feelings and they are nobody else's business. But if your acting on those feelings hurts the people you love, you have to think about what things you might want to feel and say only to yourself, alright?"

She sits up a little. "Which doesn't mean you have to hide your feelings—you just have to learn to not always act on them."

Her eyes narrow a little when she looks at me and she shifts closer to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. There's something about that gesture that suddenly seems deeply unnerving to me.

"But, as I said before, Santana, I think you're handling all of this considerably well—better than I would've thought," she smiles weakly. "And I'm proud of you, sweetie, so proud."

I look down at our joined hands and she tightens her grip on mine a little. A few beats pass in total silence. Then, Mom takes a deep breath and goes on to say, "I looked at the table you filled out."

Another beat of silence.

"This-," she sighs. "Sweetie, I think you know this already, but- you're not eating enough. Far from enough, actually. And I don't want you to slip back into the anorexia, okay?"

The word sounds weird coming from her lips, almost as if she's having a hard time knowing that this is a problem, a situation that I am—we are—struggling with. And who can blame her, really?

I don't notice the heavy trembling of my hands until Mom squeezes them a little tighter and raises our joined hands to her chest.

"You don't need to lose weight, sweetie," she breathes against my knuckles. "You're so, so beautiful, just the way you are. I wouldn't change a thing and I wouldn't subtract a single ounce."

I can be beautiful and still weigh too much.

Tears are welling up in my eyes and I actually have to hold myself back from slamming my head against the wall—anything to drown out those terrible, terrible thoughts.

"Mom, I-" but before I can form another word, the tears I was so keen on holding back suddenly spill down my cheeks and nothing stops them anymore. "I don't want this to happen again, Mom."

"Oh, Santana."

Her hands let go of mine just so she can reach out and fold me into her arms, pressing my head gently against her chest. "I know, sweetie, I know."

And she litters my head with small kisses, my name falling from her lips in shaking exhales and heavy sighs while her hands roam over my back and stroke over my arms—while I sob into her blouse and sob and sob and can't stop myself from sobbing.

"I just- I don't know what to do, Mom, I don't know what to do and- those thoughts are coming back but I-I don't even want them to—why is this happening again, Mom? I just- I just want to eat cake and n-not feel awful afterwards. I just want to eat out with my friends and, I don't know, stuff myself with Ben & Jerry's and not wake up the next day and feel like I'm fat. I just- I just want to be normal, Mom, but I-I don't know how, I don't know how…"

"Shh," Mom whispers into my ear. "Shh, sweetie, don't cry. Please, don't cry, Santana. Gosh, I love you so, so much."

Her voice is a little raspy, a little wavery as if she's struggling to hold back tears but her hands on my back are firm and her kisses on my head are gentle and slowly—slowly—my breathing slows down a little and the sobs ebb away and form into a quiet, ragged breathing. Carefully, Mom cups my cheeks with her hands and holds my head up to wipe my tears with the sleeves of her blouse. She tilts her head forwards and kisses my forehead.

"Everything is going to be all right," she says, emphasizing every word, every syllable. "I promise you, Santana, we're going to get through this."

I nod slowly and, with a sniff, fall back into her arms, resting my chin on her shoulder. Mom's moved to sit right next to me in the middle of my bed, a foot tucked underneath her and the other dangling off the mattress.

"Now, Santana, I've been thinking," she says after a while and I would sit up if Mom's embrace wasn't so comfortable and her body wasn't so warm. "And I've spoken to Rachel about this as well but I wanted to ask you too before jumping to any decisions—a friend who's been in a similar situation with their family recommended a therapist to me that specializes in family psychology and I think we might want to get an appointment. Only one session at first to see how we feel about it and to make up our minds. It's just an offer I wanted to make, okay? I think we should give it a shot, but I understand if you're not comfortable with the idea. Perhaps I could make an appointment for you with your old therapist if you feel the need to talk to her again? Whatever you want, sweetie, and whatever you feel comfortable with."

Her hands stroke through my hair and then stop to lay on the curve of my spine. "I'd like to give it a try, though."

I take a moment to blink at the opposing wall, shining in a dark red and with a big poster of the cheerleading championship 2019 and a chain of dim, orange lights above it. Then, I swallow down the lump that's been building in my throat for the past few seconds.

"Could I do both?"

Mom shifts a little, clearly taken aback. "An appointment with yours and the family therapist?"

I nod slowly and she deflates—sighs—in relief. "Of course, sweetheart. I'll make an appointment on Monday right away."

There's a pause in our conversation and I take the time to gently pull myself from Mom's embrace and wipe away any tears that Mom didn't catch before. "Did you know I'm going to sing the solo at Sectionals?"

Almost immediately, Mom's face lights up with a huge smile. "Of course, I did. It was the first thing Rachel told me on Friday when she came home from dance classes. She's just as proud of you as I am."

I squirm a little awkwardly at her sudden optimism. I'm not used to be swooned and boasted about when it comes to singing and everything related to a theater stage—usually, that's Rachel's part—and it feels weird to be the one on the receiving end of that kind of praise. But Mom's smile is kind of contagious and she's almost buzzing with enthusiasm—and I simply can't escape that.

She wraps an arm around my shoulders and presses a kiss to my parting. "I'm so lucky to have you and your sister."

"Nu-huh," I shake my head. "We're so lucky to have you, Mom."

In that moment, it feels like everything's going to be okay. We're doing better than a few weeks ago—we're going to get help for the things we can't do on our own. And we are going to get through this.

But of course, things just aren't meant to stay okay for long. And so, Quinn and I are standing in front of the vending machine at the end of the hallway, waiting for the ridiculously expensive package of Reese's to find its way into the hatch at the bottom of the machine.

"What kind of idiot made those machines so damn slow?" Quinn slams her flat palm against the side of the machine. "Seriously, we're gonna miss Spanish if this isn't going to hurry up a bit."

I roll my eyes a little. "Who cares about Spanish anyway? I mean, it's not like Mr. Schue is gonna flip at us for being a little late. He loves us now that we've joined Glee."

"I wouldn't want to test that theory," says Quinn. "And we should get our tests back today and I want to know how badly I screwed up."

"Girl, you never screw up anything school related."

"Not true," Quinn shakes the vending machine a little and we both lean forward to watch the orange pack of Reese's inch towards the glass. "I'm not good at Spanish—it always takes me hours to finish the assignments."

I shrug. "Google Translate's my best friend."

Quinn turns -probably to start a five-minute-rant on how inefficient my methods are and how I should try to actually learn those vocabulary words instead of just typing a whole text into Google Translate and finish the assignment with a quick copy and paste- when suddenly we're interrupted by a new voice, rushing down the hallway and towards us.

"Guys, guys, guys!" squeals Brittany before she's even reached us. "You won't believe what happened!"

Quinn deals the vending machine another slam and then turns to look at Brittany. "What is it?"

"Okay, whew, are you ready?" Brittany's fingers drum against each other in a furious beat. "Ohmygoddannyjustaskedmeoutyouguys!"

I blink in confusion. "Um, Britt, could you lay off the excited-chatter-pedal a bit so we can actually understand you?"

Brittany, with flushed cheeks and a huge smile, gently shakes the vending machine and hands the Reese's that immediately falls into the hatch to Quinn, -who's gaping at her open-mouthed- turns and says, "Remember Danny? The cute guy with the dimples and the dark hair that stepped in for Finn when he was sick the last match?"

Quinn and I nod slowly.

"He asked me out!" Brittany squeals. "And I… said yes! And he's, like, the cutest boy ever."

"Awesome," says Quinn with a smile. "And thanks for the Reese's by the way, you're a miracle worker."

And I say nothing because, well, because my stomach churns suddenly in a weird, almost painful way that has nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to take my painkillers against cramps this morning. It feels like my heart sinks down into the pit of my stomach and stops beating for a second before picking up its pace and beating five times as fast as before.

A voice in my head sounds: Missed your chance. Missed your chance. Missed your fucking chance.

And all I can think about is that I probably have to talk to Mom or Rachel or Nana or Cassie. And Noah. Yes, I definitely have to talk to Noah.

But first, I have to sort through the fucking mess that's my emotions—as if I didn't have enough on my plate already.