The Matchmaker
chapter three
SANTANA
"So – to what do I owe this Saturday late afternoon lunch invitation from New York's hottest relationship fixer-upper?" Kurt asks, his trademark wry grin spreading across his face as he fastidiously spreads his napkin across his lap. "A new hottie for me to squire around town, I hope?" He squeezes exactly four drops of lemon into his water, then sets it down next to the glass. "You know all work and no play makes a Kurt a very dull, not to mention unhappy, boy."
On any other day, Santana would cut his way too fashionably dressed ass down to size with a well-placed snarky comeback, but her heart's just not in it today. Her heart, much like that of the Grinch of Christmas TV special lore, feels as though it's grown three sizes; she can't remember the last time she was in this good a mood.
"Sorry, Hummel, no hottie for you this time," she says, scanning the list of appetizers on the Spotlight Diner's expansive menu. "Nope – this time, the hottie is mine, all mine."
Kurt laughs incredulously, scarcely able to believe his ears. It's been so long since Santana's even had a casual hook-up, let alone an actual date, that he can't help but think she's setting him up for the punchline to a particularly savage joke. But when he looks at her and sees the genuinely happy smile lighting up her usually sour countenance, he realizes that she's being completely truthful.
"Oh. My. God. You're serious. Are you telling me the most fiercely single woman in this city has met someone? You must tell me everything! No detail is to be spared."
The laugh that escapes Santana's unadorned lips – she never wears makeup on weekends, because she never has any reason to bother – is light and airy, matching her mood. If she's being honest with herself, the last time she felt like this was when she and Brittany were sixteen years old and just discovering each other. She'd hoped this feeling would come with Dani one day, but maybe that had been the problem; maybe she'd been trying to force with her what had come so naturally, so suddenly, with Rachel.
"Settle down, Ladyface," she jibes, but there's no sting in the words. Besides, she's been calling him that for so long that he hardly even minds it anymore.
"This is as settled as I'm going to get until you spill. So start talking. What's her name?"
Santana grabs one of the small dinner rolls out of the basket, slices it in half and begins to slather it with butter, savoring the look of disgust that clouds Kurt's face as she does. He's been vehemently anti-anything with cholesterol ever since his father suffered a heart attack a few years back.
"Her name," she begins, around a mouthful of soft, buttery goodness, "is Rachel. We met this morning in the glamorous environs of the laundromat, of all places. You know the one, over by the NYADA campus?"
"You know very well that all my clothes are dry-clean only, and that I have never, ever set foot inside a laundromat," Kurt sniffs disdainfully, looking vaguely insulted.
The waiter, a nondescript young man with puffy black hair, thick glasses and an irritatingly nasal voice, interrupts to take their orders – Caesar salad for him, chicken fingers (he shudders at the name, another source of amusement) for her – and departs with their menus.
"You're right – I should have remembered that, except I don't care. Now, do you want to hear the story or not?"
"Sorry," he answers, not sorry at all. "Please, go on. I do so love a 'meet cute.'"
"So I'm in there doing my laundry, which you know I hate doing because Britt used do it when she was here, and in walks this giant bag of clothing with legs – and what legs! It's wobbling this way and that, threatening to fall the hell over, and no one's making any move to help. So I walk over to find that it's this tiny girl, maybe five foot two at best, struggling to carry this huge bag that's almost bigger than she is, and I help her out with it."
Kurt's eyes widen and his jaw drops. "You actually helped a stranger? You? I can't believe it."
"Hey, I help strangers for a living," Santana protests. "Doesn't mean I have to do it in my free time too."
"So what made this...Rachel the exception to that rule, I wonder? Was it just the legs, or something more?"
She chews thoughtfully at her buttery roll. Yes, at first the attraction was purely physical, she can admit that; but there was something in Rachel's infectious smile, in the honest, completely guileless way she spoke, that set her apart. There was so much life in her, so much energy emanating from her, Santana had been completely helpless to resist it.
"Well, she's beautiful, of course, but not in the usual way. She's got these really big chocolate-brown eyes, and kind of olive-toned skin, a sort of Middle Eastern complexion, and the most amazing smile I've ever seen. I mean, her teeth are so white, they're like Tic-Tacs. And her nose is maybe a little big for her face, but I think it's perfect anyway."
"Fascinating," Kurt murmurs. "Do you know, this is the first time I've ever heard you describe a woman's face before evaluating her body? I must say, it's a welcome change, as your analysis of a woman's breasts, while extraordinarily detailed, is lost on me for the most part – unless of course you're talking about how to fit them into a piece of couture."
Do I really do that? Santana wonders. Maybe I just didn't notice Rachel's? And does that make me a bad person, either way? She's so beautiful, I don't even care, really.
"Hello? Santana?" Kurt snaps his fingers inches away from her face. "Are you in there?"
Suddenly wrenched back to reality by the sound of Kurt's voice – and the annoying fingers snapping in front of her – Santana hisses, "If you don't get your fingers out of my face now, Hummel, I promise you're going to lose them – painfully."
"Ah, there she is," Kurt smugly replies. "So the mere mention of this girl's name – as well as her other...attributes – is enough to send you spinning into a trance. However, while I'm sure she's fascinating, I do have one concern."
"Since when do you have the right to be concerned about my love life, lady face?"
The dapper young man's smile falls, replaced by an expression of genuine hurt. Men. They're so sensitive.
"Since your last girlfriend nearly turned your life into a complete shambles. I would have thought I didn't have to remind you," he huffs, clearly offended. "Evidently, that is not the case."
"My life was already mostly in shambles. Dani just brought down the little bit that Britt left standing."
"Sad but true. And who was it that helped you to pick up all those pieces scattered around you? Allow me to refresh your memory, Miss Lopez. It was moi, your loyal, long-time best friend. Oh, and that guy in the wheelchair from your office. But mostly it was me."
Santana lets out a long, low sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry. But honestly, you don't have anything to worry about with Rachel. She's...different. Special. She's not all hard and jaded like Dani was, like so many women in this town. She's so young, so alive, all full of dreams and energy. It's infectious. I...I like the way that feels. I want to feel more of it."
The waiter arrives with their meals and a simpering half-smile that turns into a dejected frown when Kurt waves away his can I get you anything else without so much as a word. It's obvious the poor boy finds Kurt attractive – painfully so – and just as obvious that Kurt isn't the least bit interested. Santana hides her smile with a forkful of chicken dipped in honey mustard, while Kurt fastidiously tucks his cloth napkin into the collar of his shirt, and then tucks into his Caesar salad.
The two best friends eat in companionable silence for a while before Kurt takes a sip of water, then puts down his fork and fixes Santana with a questioning stare.
"Did you say Rachel is...younger? Pray tell, how much younger? Dear god, I hope she's not a freshman. Please tell me you're not about to date a girl who's just barely out of high school!"
Santana nearly chokes on the mouthful she's been chewing, then gulps down half of her own glass of water. "Kurt, are you insane? Of course not!" she whispers harshly. "I should end you for that." She wipes at her mouth with her napkin, then continues in a more normal tone of voice. "She's in her junior year at NYADA, majoring in musical theater, and up for the starring role in a revival of something called Funny Girl. I've never heard of it, but she said it's a kind of a big deal."
The way her best friend's jaw drops to the table confirms that. He reaches across the table, grabs her hands. His face is even paler than usual, and she's pretty sure he's close to hyperventilating.
"Funny Girl is a 'big deal' in the same way that the sun is orange and hot, Santana." There's an almost crazed look in his eye; it's more than a little unnerving. "The title role is only one of the most iconic parts in musical theater history, originated and immortalized on the Broadway stage by none other than the legendary Ms. Barbara Streisand herself."
"Um, okay. I get it. She said that too." She pauses, remembering how gravely serious Rachel's expression had been when she'd told her about the audition. "Wow. So...if she gets the part, she could become a big star."
"That's a lot of pressure for someone so young, Santana. Yes, it could make her career – or it could end it just as soon as it begins, if she or the show doesn't do well."
Santana bristles, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Are you saying she's not good enough?"
Kurt backs away, raising his hands in surrender. He knows he's wandered into dangerous territory here, but it's not in his nature to be anything less than completely honest, especially with his best friend. They've known each other too long and been through too much for him to be otherwise.
"I don't know. I haven't heard her sing. Have you?"
"No," Santana admits. "But she invited me to see her perform at her school, and then have dinner with her afterward."
"Really? So she asked you out." He sips at his water. "Huh...it's highly unusual for you not to be the one to make the first move. I'm not sure that's ever happened before. Sounds to me like this girl has really thrown you for a loop."
"I don't do loops, Hummel. She...she just caught me by surprise, that's all. I was thinking about it when she came out of nowhere with the whole school performance thing."
"Well, anyone who can take the famously guarded Santana Lopez by surprise and be considered for the role of Fanny Brice is someone I think I'd like to meet. Fancy taking a plus one to the event?"
RACHEL
The New York Academy of Dramatic Arts was a performing arts college, one of the most respected in the country, but it was still a college. As such, it required its carefully selected student body to take traditional classes in addition to the performance-focused ones, much to Rachel's dismay. She'd always been a very good student, and an exceptional multi-tasker. She was used to dividing her time between academics and her acting, dance and voice lessons, but the demands and expectations of NYADA were far more rigorous than anything she'd experienced back home in Lima. Her drive and determination, along with her talent, had gotten her here, but now she was finding herself challenged to keep up with everything more than ever before.
So it was that Rachel found herself in the library, up to her eyeballs in books and notes, researching and writing a paper while listening to the soundtrack to Wicked on her iPod, trying very hard to concentrate and not allow herself to be distracted by anything. Especially not by thoughts of a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired Latina with skin as smooth as silk and a voice to match. She pushes her laptop aside and drops her head down to the table, groaning.
Oh, who are you kidding? You've been here for hours and barely gotten anything done.
Suddenly a familiar – and unwelcome – voice breaks the quiet stillness of the stale library air. Rachel jumps at the sound, cursing under her breath. The Wicked soundtrack had ended ten minutes ago, but with the pods still in her ears, she could claim not to have heard the voice, and thereby justify ignoring it.
"Rachel. Fancy meeting you here."
She peers closely at one of the books on the table, not noticing that it's upside down, softly humming the melody to Defying Gravity and nodding her head in time.
"I know you're ignoring me, Rachel, but that's all right. I can wait. I'm very patient."
Rachel lifts her head and feigns surprise at the sight of the person she's been avoiding all semester, removing the silent pods from her ears and pulling her laptop closer, as though it might serve as a shield. You knew this was going to happen sooner or later, she chides herself. This is not the place, or the time, to have this conversation, but now the moment is upon her. Sighing, she resigns herself to it, sitting up straighter in her chair, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear.
"Jesse," she says coolly. "Sorry - I didn't hear you before." There's not even the slightest hint of an apology in her voice, but he smiles at her anyway.
"In the same way you don't hear your phone when I text or call you, or the alert sound on your laptop when I e-mail you, I suppose."
He sits down at the book-strewn table, ignoring her mental command for him to just go away.
"Look, Rachel, I know you're angry with me, and I don't blame you. I acted badly. I admit it. How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? I never took you for the type to hold a grudge."
She looks through him as though he's not even there, like he's just another shelf of books or one of the nondescript framed posters on the wall. He regards her with an expectant expression on his blandly handsome face. She crosses her arms and glares at him in return.
"You know very well that one of my mottos is forgive and forget, Jesse St. James," she spits, her voice a harsh, angry whisper. "But what you did cannot be forgiven or forgotten. That being said, I've moved on – and you should too."
"Oh, come on, Rachel," comes the expected protest, complete with eyes rolled heavenward and a self-indulgent smirk. "I never meant to hurt you. Surely you can see that."
"And yet you did."
"I was doing you a favor, Rachel. That girl was all wrong for you. As your best friend -"
"Former best friend. You keep leaving that word out."
"So you have read my messages. I knew it!" He pauses to pump his fist, knowing of course that she's always found it to be a ridiculous gesture. "Anyway, as your best friend, it was my most solemn duty to ensure that you didn't end up with someone who wasn't worthy of your talent or your love."
She ignores his pointed, deliberate omission of the word former. "Amazing how no one ever is, in your expert opinion. Funny how that works. Only not so much."
"Madison doesn't have a fraction of your talent, and she's nowhere near attractive enough to be seen with you in the cafeteria, much less as your inevitable plus-one at the Tony Awards. I was only looking out for your best interest, I swear."
Rachel feels the hot, stinging tears begin to well up, angrily wipes at her eyes with one hand. She is not going to cry in front of Jesse St. James. Not again. Not ever again.
"I loved her, Jesse! I loved her, and you drove her away," she hisses, her body trembling with barely controlled anger. "Do you know how long it's taken me to get over her? Do you?"
"Yes, yes, you loved her. But did she love you, Rachel? Did she love you the way you deserved to be loved? Madly, passionately, unconditionally? You can continue to deny it all you want, but I knew the truth was that she didn't - and you can't keep being mad at me for showing it to you."
"In a cell phone video of a hook-up that you arranged between Madison and that...that Jane girl! I remember it all too well, Jesse. It's only recently that it's stopped playing in my head every time I close my eyes to try and get to sleep."
He reaches for her hand. She pulls it away, as though recoiling from a venomous snake. There's hurt in his eyes, but her heart is iron.
"It was a desperate situation, Rachel. The signs were all there, right in front of you, but you're so stubborn. You – you just refused to see what was happening. I couldn't just stand by and let her continue to make a fool of you. People talk around here. You know that. The longer it went on, the more damage your reputation was going to take. I had to do something."
"Right. And that something just had to be the worst, most hurtful, most humiliating thing you could possibly think of doing. Well, you know what?" Rachel suddenly bolts up from her chair, begins to hurriedly collect her things, startling the normally unflappable young man as heavy books are shoved towards him, papers sent flying, scattered all over. "I'm done talking about this. I'm done with you, Jesse. Find another imagined damsel in distress to rescue. I never asked, or needed, you to save me from anything. And for the record - just because I had a moment of weakness, of - of uncertainty, with you, doesn't mean you get to manipulate my life to get the outcome you want. It's never going to happen. Ever."
Jesse just blinks incredulously at her, stunned by the implication in Rachel's words. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about, Rachel. I just - look, I just want my best friend back."
Angrily shoving her laptop into her bag, Rachel glowers at him, her eyes ablaze with fiery tears, her skin heated with long-suppressed rage. He's giving her that look, that same look that always convinced her to go along with whatever he thought she should do. The one that led to the night that was both her greatest regret and her greatest revelation. She shakes her head no, emphatically, drying her eyes roughly with the heels of her hands.
"It's far too late for that, Jesse. It's too late for anything. Don't talk to me again."
And with that, she storms from the room, leaving him to the silence of the library, to his memories, to his foolish (and apparently not as secret as he'd believed) dreams. He heaves a sigh, wearily shakes his head. Then there's nothing left to do but start retrieving the books Rachel left behind and get them back on the shelves. It's a gesture she would have appreciated, he thinks.
SANTANA
Nerves aren't something that Santana would ever confess to feeling, but in the dark and quiet hours, when she's alone with her thoughts, she can admit to herself that she's nervous about seeing Rachel again, even if she'd never admit it to anyone else. The truth is, she hasn't felt this way about anything since she'd started her matchmaking business years ago. There's just something about the young Broadway aspirant that's set her entire being humming with restless energy; it's as though a spark has been lit inside her, a spark that's slowly but surely being fanned into a bright, hot flame the more she thinks about Rachel. She's finding it difficult to think about much else, honestly.
Time, she decides, was the problem here.
There was simply too much time between that first, magical meeting in the laundromat and Rachel's showcase at NYADA. They've been exchanging flirtatious, bantering text messages pictures and phone calls that are equal parts saucy and humorous. She's been delighted to discover that Rachel has a dry wit that can leave her weak with laughter, and a salacious streak that can leave her weak in the knees; it's a combination that quickly becoming an addiction. The girl is so smart, so funny, so passionate about her art, that just reading her words on a screen, or even hearing her talk on the phone, just isn't enough anymore.
It's nowhere near enough. Santana needs to see her, needs to be near her, feel the gravitational pull that had drawn them to each other that very first time. She wants to be close enough to see the light that shines in her eyes, dancing mirthfully, in every picture she sends. She wants to take Rachel's hands in her own, marvel at how small, yet how strong, how finely formed they are, revel in the unique blend of softness and strength that has come to define the girl for her in the short time they've known each other.
It's late. Santana knows she should be getting to sleep, but her nerves feel like exposed wires, and all her non-Rachel thoughts are nothing more than a buzz of low-level static. She picks up her phone, goes into the Photos app and a smile instantly curves her lips upward when she sees the first video that Rachel ever sent her. It's just her, in her bedroom, lit only by a couple of small, flickering candles, softly singing The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face to a video camera set up only a couple of feet away from her. Santana's not a crier, not really, but when she'd gotten that video, she'd bawled her eyes out like a sixth grader with her first crush.
And then she'd played it again and again, over and over and over. Somehow Rachel had made her tiny dorm bedroom seem like a Broadway stage, her quiet voice containing more power, more emotion than the loudest cry. It was extraordinary, like nothing Santana had ever seen or heard before, and it touched something in a place she hadn't known existed within her, a place that was so deep it had been hidden until that very moment, like a secret door that led to an unknown room.
Which is why – after she's watched the video a few more times – she finds herself worrying her lip between her teeth with her finger hovering over Rachel's number, wanting desperately to call the girl, despite the hour. It's so quiet that her pounding heart sounds louder than the worst New York City traffic jam. She doesn't know when or how this need became so vital, and she supposes it doesn't really matter.
She just knows that she wants Rachel, wants her badly.
Finger meets screen, and she hears the ring of Rachel's phone, prays for an answer that's not the message that says, You have reached Rachel Berry's phone. Please leave your name, number and a brief message and I'll return your call just as soon as I possibly can. Thanks!
"H-hello?" comes the groggy, yet still impossibly cute voice. Santana smiles despite feeling badly about waking Rachel.
"Hi. Sorry to wake you up. I...I couldn't sleep."
"No...no, that's all right. I was – I was just dreaming," Rachel whispers. Santana can practically hear her squinting in the darkness at the alarm clock on the little nightstand, then looking over at her fortunately still out cold roommate in the bed across the room. "Hold on. Let me go out to the living room so I don't wake up Tina."
"Okay. Take your time. And don't trip over anything."
There's a soft bump sound. Santana's heart leaps into her throat. "Ow! You jinxed me."
"Oh my God! I'm so sorry, Rachel. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Tina's not out here, which is good, because if she was, I wouldn't be. Fine, I mean. She's really sweet, but she takes her sleep very seriously."
"You do too. Which is why, again, I'm sorry I woke you. I know I shouldn't have, but I..." Santana pauses, heaves a sigh. "I wanted to hear your voice. And...to ask you something."
"I can only assume that something is very important, or you wouldn't have called me at this hour about it." Some of the sleepiness has left Rachel's voice; the tone is light, letting Santana know she's forgiven. "Hold on – I'm getting some water. My throat's a little dry."
"Okay," Santana says, listening to the sound of water filling a glass, then the sound of it being thirstily gulped down. "Feel better now?"
"Much. Thank you. So, Miss Late Night Caller, what is it you called at this late hour to ask?"
"I wanted to know - oh, God, now that I'm doing this, it feels so silly. Ugh, I'm like, back in junior high with the sweaty palms and racing heartbeat." Santana takes a deep breath. Why is this so difficult? Maybe this was a mistake. It had seemed like such a good idea just a few minutes ago...
"Santana. Whatever it is, it's all right," Rachel says, and the gentle concern in her voice instantly brings Santana back to herself. "I get the sense that this really is important for you, so just relax and tell me what's on your mind. Okay?"
"Okay. All right. Look, I'm not good at this – mostly because I've never done it before – but I...I just can't wait until the showcase to see you again. So I wanted to know if maybe you might want to, you know, meet for coffee or something later. If – if you're not too busy, that is."
There. I said it. Santana holds her breath, waiting for the answer, hoping harder for a yes than she's ever hoped for anything in her life, even though she knows there's no reason why she should expect anything else.
"You really called me at three o'clock in the morning to ask me out on a coffee date, Santana?"
The air rushes out of her as though she's taken a punch to the stomach. She hurries to answer, to end the call before it spirals into something even more humiliating than it already is. "Um, yeah. You know what, though? This was silly. A really bad idea. I'm so sorry I woke you, Rachel. I'll just – I'll just hang up and let you get back to sleep now."
"Santana. You will do no such thing!"
There's an edge to Rachel's voice that Santana's never heard before. She's not one to take orders from anybody, which is why she's her own boss and not somebody's employee, but Rachel is so forceful, so commanding, that she can do nothing more than blink, staring into darkness.
"What you are going to do, Santana, is stay on the phone and talk with me until I get sleepy again, because I'm too excited about the fact that you just asked me out to go back to bed. Understood?"
The smile that spreads across Santana's face is so wide it actually hurts, but she barely feels the pain. "Yes, ma'am."
"No one's ever called me ma'am before," Rachel giggles. "I only ever called friends' moms, or my teachers, ma'am."
"I'll try not to make a habit of it, then." The music of Rachel's laughter sounds in her ear again, and Santana's heart feels like a light, glow-y thing in her chest. "Although I have to say, I couldn't really help myself after the voice you used on me there. So bossy. So hot."
"Hmm...bossy, was it? I never thought of it that way. Really, it's just the voice I use when I need someone to do something, and I don't want to waste time arguing about it. I found it remarkably effective back when I was leading my high school glee club to our national championship victories."
"Are you telling me that none of your teammates ever once called you that?" Santana asks bemusedly. She slides her body beneath her blanket to get more comfortable, completely relaxed now that her earlier tension over asking Rachel out has been resolved.
"Well, they might have, but I didn't really listen to that sort of thing. Every ship needs a captain –" Santana hears the shrug in her voice. " - ours just happened to need one more than most, and since I had the most training and competitive experience, it was only natural that I should be the one in charge. Well, me and our faculty advisor, anyway."
"I was a cheerleader in high school," Santana volunteers, suddenly recalling nearly forgotten days of long football games, longer practices, and even longer competitions against other schools' squads.
"Stop it!" Rachel exclaims. Then, more quietly, remembering that Tina is still blissfully slumbering in the other room, she continues, giggling softly. "You were not. I simply cannot imagine you standing on the sidelines going, Yay team!"
"It's true! And not only was I a cheerleader, I was a damned good one. Captain of the squad, in fact. And a badass. They called me the Head Bitch in Charge. I kept everyone in line, on their toes and in shape. They didn't want to cross me, because if they did...well, let's just say that it wasn't pleasant for them."
"So that's where you cultivated your tough exterior?"
"You think I have a tough exterior? Is that a turn-on for you?"
"Not tough, exactly. More like guarded, or wary. I figure it's because somewhere along the line, someone hurt you, and you need to protect yourself. But I can also see that beneath that hard outside, there's a soft and sweet inside, like..." Rachel pauses, searching for a good analogy. But it's late, and she's starting to get a little drowsy again, and all she can think of is, "Like an Oreo. That's it – like an Oreo cookie."
"Okay, first – wanky. I mean, crème filling and all that. But second, no. I'm not a cookie. I am no form of snack food."
"Oh, but you are, Santana. You're my cookie. In fact, I think that will be my special, secret nickname for you. Cookie. I like it," Rachel drawls, feeling the pull of sleep upon her eyelids as she lets out a hearty yawn. "Yes. You're my sweet and tasty cookie."
"I – I am not! I mean, I – ugh! How do you make me not hate this?" Santana weakly protests, realizing that she secretly loves what she's just heard, but can never, ever admit it.
"Just a special gift I have, cookie. Accept it and move on. I can hear your pout from here, you know."
"That's where you're wrong. I never pout." Santana replies, steadfastly ignoring the fact that her lips are indeed thrust outward in the way they used to be when she was a little girl and her mami told her she couldn't have...oh, God...a cookie before dinner. "And I hate you just a tiny bit right now."
Yawning again, Rachel matter-of-factly says, "No, you don't. I know that because you just asked me out on a coffee date. And later today, when we're both much more awake, I'll get a text from you telling me where and when to meet. Until then, I'm going to go back to bed and see if I can't get back to the very nice dream I was having when you called."
"Oh? And what was that dream about?"
"You, silly. And on that note, you should hang up now, unless you want to listen to me sleep in the vain hope that I'll talk while I slumber."
Oh. Getting flustered was not something to which Santana would ever admit, either, but somehow, Rachel Berry possessed a distinct talent for knocking her off-kilter in the most pleasant of ways.
"Um, okay. Yeah. I...I'll just go now, then," she stammers, feeling her face flush and her mouth go a little dry.
"Sweet dreams, cookie." Another yawn. She's fading fast.
"Goodnight, Rachel. And thanks."
"For...for what?"
"Saying yes."
She ends the call and stares at the phone for a moment before letting out a happy, contented sigh. I am so not a cookie, though. But you know...if I were, which I'm completely not, an Oreo is definitely the best kind to be, because they're totally badass. And so good with milk. So yeah, I'm awesome and so are they. Fuck, now I want to get up and have some Oreos.
And as Santana heads off to the kitchen in the dark, she swears a silent vow to make Rachel Berry pay if a plate of Oreos with a glass of milk becomes a late-night habit – although, she muses, she might not mind so much if Rachel were here to share them.
No, that wouldn't be a bad thing at all, she thinks, smiling.
A/N: Profuse apologies for the extreme length of time between updates. Life gets in the way, blah blah blah, I'm sure you know how it goes. Still, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it - and that you'll leave a review or send me a PM to let me know what you liked, didn't like or would like to see happen in future installments. As always, I own neither Glee nor any brands mentioned in this story. No delicious sandwich cookies were harmed in the writing of this story (except the ones I may have eaten). Until next time, dear readers...