Trigger warnings; Character death, mention of terminal illness in later chapters, angst in later chapters. Based on Erich Segal's Love Story.
What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful. And brilliant.
That she loved Beyoncé and Britney. And dancing.
And me.
Once, when she listed those things in that exact order, I asked her, "What's the order?"
She grinned, and replied. "Alphabetical."
At the time I smiled too.
But it bothered me. It still does. There's a niggling feeling at the back of my mind that I was last on her list, be that alphabetical, in order of preference or vice versa. I wanted to be her first for everything, first to kiss, first to smile at in the morning when her breath was sour but her eyes were shining. First to call when she was crying so hard that she could barely see whose number she was calling.
Either way, I never came first on that list. She'd repeat it in that precise order, that infuriatingly beautiful, smug grin plastered on her face.
But I wanted to be first—no, I needed to be first. Family heritage, don't you know?
It was senior year. For some trivial reason, I'd gotten into the habit of using the Julliard Cafe. Not just because the girls were better looking, although I admit I liked to look. It was quiet, the coffee was better, nobody knew me (and thus nobody bothered me), and there were none of those annoying jocks who kept asking me on dates, and calling me a tease when I 'politely' turned them down. As if they had even a third of a chance.
I shuffled (who fucking struts in a coffeehouse?) over to the counter. There were two people working at the desk; one a muscled, obviously attractive Asian guy, the other a leggy blonde girl. I opted for legs.
"A small espresso, please."
She shot a glance up at me.
"Don't you have your own coffeehouse, Preppie?" she asked, a smirk on her face.
I rolled my eyes.
"Listen, NYU is allowed to use Julliard's café. There's no fucking rule against that."
"Wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?" she retorted, a twinkle in her eyes.
I bit back a smile.
"Stop calling me that, blondie. You don't even know if I went to prep school, Jesus Christ."
She surveyed me for a moment.
"You look stupid and rich," she said, winking playfully at me.
I sighed half heartedly.
"You're wrong." I argued. "I'm actually smart and poor."
She gave a snort, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards. She was leaning closer now, so close I could count every sun-kissed freckle dusted on her face. 27, I noted.
"Oh no, Preppie. I'm smart and poor."
She stared right at me. Her eyes were like sapphires, ocean blue and focused on my lips. I wetted them nervously. Okay, maybe I looked rich, but I wasn't about to let some stranger—even one with pretty eyes—call me dumb.
"What the fuck makes you so intelligent, huh?" I asked in mock offense, my left hand moving to fiddle a dark lock of hair. She giggled in response.
"I wouldn't go for coffee with you," she answered.
"Listen—I wouldn't ask you."
"That," she replied "is what makes you stupid."
Let me explain why I took her out in the end. That wasn't my intention at all in the beginning, honest to God. I got my coffee, walked to the most secluded corner of the room, sat down and opened the book I was supposed to be reading, under the pretence of studying. Honestly, I just wanted some fucking peace and quiet for a change. I could see her glancing at me repeatedly, a half smile on her face as she moved fluidly from one coffee machine to the other. Once, she caught my eye, and flashed a bright smile in my direction. I shook my head a little, and found myself smiling back.
10 minutes later, I looked up from my book (yes, I was actually studying now) and found myself face to face with those cat like eyes.
"Hi," she breathed, her eyes studying mine intently.
"H-hey," I replied. Wow. Fucking smooth.
She giggled, and I felt myself blushing. Thank fucking God for tanned skin. She moved to sit by me, shifting up along the bench until we were pressed together. Screw personal space.
"So are you gonna ask me out, or not?" She inquired, a cheeky grin on her face.
Of course I had to take her out. I mean, what kind of heartless human being would I be if I turned that down? It had nothing to do with how I felt myself being drawn to those eyes. Or those legs.
We went to Bel-Aire Diner together that night. God knows why I agreed to even step foot in there (I was watching my weight), but she insisted, claiming that the milkshakes were 'better than rainbow unicorns' and that the fries were out of this world. So I obliged, playing the part of the chivalrous date, opening the door for her (even after she slapped my ass and called me a pussy) and pulling her chair out for her. We split a plate of curly fries and a chocolate chip milkshake (she picked; I would never even have contemplated ordering one.)
"I'm Brittany Susan Pierce. Not Britney Spears. I'm way hotter," she deadpanned, wrapping her heart-shaped lips around the straw of the milkshake. I fought to hide my blush.
"Santana. Santana Lopez," I mumbled.
"Oh." She replied simply. I raised my eyebrows.
"What? What did I do wrong?"
She snorted, shaking her head in answer to my question.
"Nothing," she replied, her slender fingers ripping packet after packet of ketchup open. It was kind of endearing.
"So what are you majoring in?" I asked, smiling slightly and shuddering as she pushed the glass towards me. My movements elicited a delighted giggle from her, and my smile widened ever so slightly.
"Dance Repertory."
"What's repertory?" I wondered out loud.
"Nothing sexual, Preppie."
I flushed, biting my lip. Why the hell was I putting up with this? Usually, by now, I'd be leaving the apartment of whoever the lucky girl of the night was.
"Hey, don't you know who I am?!" I was rattled, to say the least.
"Yeah," she replied, her tone uninterested but her eyes twinkling, filled with mirth. "You own Lopez hall."
I narrowed my eyes at her playfully.
"Nope, that's not me. My great-grandfather donated it to the school."
She snorted for the umpteenth time of the night.
"So that his great-granddaughter would be able to get in?" She said with a smirk, the playful laughter in her eyes betraying her mocking tone.
"Britt." The nickname rolled off my tongue easily. I tried again.
"Brittany," I took care in enunciating my word. She laughed, leaning forwards. "If you're so convinced that I'm a loser, then why did you bulldoze me into taking you out?"
She looked me straight in the eyes and smiled.
"I like your body," She answered with a chuckle, not missing the way that my tongue poked out between my lips at those words.
I walked her back to campus that night. As we got to the door of her dorm, she turned to smile at me. I didn't smile back.
"Listen you airheaded bitch, Friday night is the NYU vs Harvard dodgeball game."
She leaned in and pressed her hot mouth to my ear, her breath tickling the rim of my shell. "And why would I care about that?" she whispered.
I swallowed audibly.
"I want you to come with me. Because I'm playing."
She pulled away, and looked me in the eyes. There was a brief silence.
"For which side?"
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