Revisited and revised.
04
Brittany can barely concentrate on Santana's words. The two women are sitting on Santana's couch in her office, their thighs touching. Apparently they were discussing something about the divorce and Santana is asking for Brittany's opinion as she points something out on the papers she's holding. Santana's perfume is everywhere – soaked into her books, the couch, the scent of her shampoo softly mingling with it all. She looks at Santana's hand, so well manicured and so soft and so elegant. She wonders what they were talking about before her senses got the best of her.
Santana looks up, straight into Brittany's eyes. It only makes things worse. Both of them can feel the tension in the air, the presence of something that they cannot verbalize, that they cannot allow themselves to imagine. Brittany wets her lips, her mouth slightly open in anticipation. There are a few long seconds – she almost can't take it, the tension and the inaction and the sensation that there's only Santana in the world – before the tilting of their heads mirrors each other and their heads are closer by the second. The moment their lips meet is as consensual as it is desired. Santana sighs as her hands cup Brittany's cheek and it is wonderful to have Santana's lips on hers again.
It triggers a longing Brittany had long forgotten and she deepens the kiss, quickly earning a moan from Santana. The papers fall to the ground with a thud but that doesn't break the moment, because Santana is pulling on her lower lip and kissing her again and they have so much lost time to make up for. Their bodies automatically move and before Brittany can grasp any coherent thought she's straddling Santana, arching her body against the brunette as hands run over her back. Brittany breaks the kiss, breathless, and takes her time looking at those familiar features. "I missed you," she whispers before hungrily assaulting Santana's neck.
Santana's neck is a soft spot. Brittany can feel the goosebumps on Santana's arms and the way her breathing becomes erratic and superficial in a matter of seconds. It brings a smile to her lips. Some things do not change indeed. She sucks and bites and licks until Santana whimpers and sinks her nails into Brittany's thighs. Brittany takes in Santana's perfume, breathing into the other woman's neck in a way that makes her gasp and shiver. "Brittany," Santana says weakly before pulling her in for a kiss, to which Brittany obliges contentedly.
Brittany basks in the taste of Santana's tongue against hers and the exploration of Santana's mouth, but she feels the yearning for more already tingling. Santana is holding her firmly with one arm wrapped around her waist and the other hand on the back of her neck. Brittany feels protected; it's like having their connection back without the current restraints. It feels wonderful.
Then Santana trails her kisses down and Brittany's knees weaken when the wet kisses reach her breasts. She wishes she were shirtless already, her hands grasping Santana's shoulders for dear life. She forgets to breathe for a moment, her head tilting back as her hips thrust forward and Santana's hands undo enough buttons of her shirt to explore skin. Santana was too skilled for her own good. "Please," Brittany breathes out, hoping Santana would understand.
Santana does, because she tightens her hold to shift positions and now she's on top of Brittany, unzipping her pants and sneaking her hand inside. Brittany happily spreads her legs open, closing her eyes at the feel of Santana's fingers dipping into wetness. "God, Britt-" Santana mumbles as she begins to thrust, looking into Brittany's eyes.
Brittany wakes up from the most vivid dream of her life. She sits up on her own bed and looks around the empty room with a frown. Santana is not there. She crosses her legs out of instinct and throws herself back on the bed with a groan, her back arching in need. She is not one to have wet dreams, especially because she is not one to be sexually frustrated in any way. She doesn't know what's worse: not having someone to take the edge off or the vivid sensation of Santana's lips all over her skin. She groans again, unable to tell why she'd had that dream – they were barely past the awkwardness, and surely nowhere near flirting or building up anything sexual between them.
The doorbell rings loudly and she realizes that must be what had woken her up on a Saturday morning. She's not expecting anyone, though. Prince Charming, her dog, is at the door, sniffing curiously and barking every few seconds. The noise and confusion make her give up going back to sleep and hopefully continue the dream, so she gets up. Hopefully it would just be the mailman or something as quick and meaningless.
She opens the door, still rubbing her eyes. "My child!" Her mother squeals and pulls her in for a hug. A glance to the side reveals her father, and everything feels surreal. "John told us!" Because Brittany hadn't done so, obviously. It felt easier to merely float from day to day, doing the absolute necessary and nothing else. Telling anyone means reliving the situation and the pain and the disappointment, and she could live without that.
Her mother lets her go. She is blonde, a little overweight, and obviously maternal. Her eyes are the exact same color as Brittany's and her hair is a little above the shoulders, contrasting with Brittany's long locks. Brittany loves her more than anything. "Hi," Brittany says timidly, wondering if they were mad at her for not telling. "Come in." Her father squeezes her shoulder and Brittany nods at him when they enter the apartment. Prince Charming barks and runs and barks, clearly delighted with the impromptu visit.
If she needed a good cold shower or a slap in the face, this was exactly it. She sighs as she notices they brought suitcases. The last thing she needed was a prolonged stay. Before they notice, she puts on a smile. "Talk to us. We are your parents; we shouldn't be the last ones to know. We were so worried, baby," her father says in his deep voice as he and her mother sit on the couch. He is a good man, in Brittany's opinion. He works hard, has never been dishonest, and loves her mother.
She looks at the floor. "Sorry. If it makes it any better, I didn't tell anyone but Santana." The realization that she shouldn't have said that strikes her like lightning right after the words leave her mouth. Why would she bring up her ex-partner, ex-best friend, ex-lover as the first thing in the conversation? The questioning looks on her parents' faces need no further explaining. Brittany looks apologetic. "She's my lawyer?" she says tentatively, very aware she is putting her foot in her mouth. It is very likely she's delivering the worst explanation mankind has ever witnessed.
"Do elaborate," her father says, his face impenetrable as always, making his daughter even more nervous. She hates not knowing what people are feeling, since she's used to being fairly accurate in her intuitions. Her father has never been of much help there, however. Brittany slumps down on a chair across from the couch.
"You guys know she's a lawyer." She pauses. "I needed a lawyer." Her argument is almost tautological and she cannot explain why her narrative started with Santana and not with John. "I needed a lawyer I trusted to get myself a divorce." There is another pause. Brittany feels exasperated for not being interrupted or questioned by her parents. She doesn't have the story fully organized in her head, and she doesn't know what to tell and where to start. Everything feels confusing, and to be left to her own devices in explaining was unpleasant, to say the least. "Despite everything, I do trust Santana." She bites her lip. "So I called her. It was the first time we spoke to each other since..." The sentence is left hanging. Brittany doesn't wish to finish it.
"But what happened to you and John, sweetie? You always seemed like such a happy couple! Why didn't you tell us anything before you split up?" her mother finally asks. It becomes very clear that none of them knew what went on, and Brittany wonders what they had talked about with John and what exactly her ex-husband had said.
"We were happy, mother." Brittany smiles softly. "At least, I was." It breaks her to say it. She tries to find the words, running a hand over Prince Charming's head in the meantime. "But then I found out he was cheating on me with another woman. So I broke up with him and kicked him out." Prince Charming licks her foot and she smiles at him. She was more of a cat person, but John had convinced her they should get a dog. "There's not much else to say." She does not cry. Maybe John has had his fair share of her tears already, she thinks. "He cheated on me and it's over."
Santana hurriedly puts her cell phone inside her purse as she enters the restaurant. She was having a nice week, a fine week of having sex at home every night and being a badass at work every day. She still had an edge she couldn't quite get rid of, but she could deal with that – she couldn't deny it was probably the driving force behind her behavior these days. She felt like a shark. Alexander loved it, an underlying statement that both of them were predators cut out for success. He basked in her intensity only to match her competitive ways.
However, her week ceased being good the second Brittany called. It was a Sunday morning, a perfectly pleasant Sunday morning as Alexander performed oral sex on Santana and life was good. Two hours later, she was arriving at a restaurant to have lunch with Brittany's parents, out of all people, feeling sexually frustrated and mildly terrified and wishing she had never picked up the call.
Santana had interrupted the fun the second she realized it was Brittany, much to her own and to Alexander's displeasure. Santana hated leaving business unfinished, and that included her own orgasms. But there was nothing left to do to erase the mental image of Brittany's parents and bring back her arousal. There was no arousal left in the world after the prospect of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Pierce in person.
Last time she had seen them Brittany was still her girlfriend. Girlfriend as in lesbian girlfriend; as in Santana being out and happy about it. Santana tries not to think about that too often, but it's becoming rather impossible. The Pierces are a part of her past that is as significant as it is ignored. They watched her grow up with Brittany and, in many ways, were like family to her. Not to mention they had taken the news that she and Brittany were in a gay relationship with each other much better than the Lopezes, that's for sure.
"Hello there," she says as she spots them already sitting at a table and savoring a glass of wine each. "Sorry for being late," she adds, not offering any further explanation. She had learned from a very young age not to justify her actions. She sits down and it almost feels like déjà vu: Brittany on her left, Mrs. Pierce in front of her, and Mr. Pierce in front of Brittany. The placing had been repeated over and over again during her life.
"Santana." Mr. Pierce is the first to say anything, and Santana worries her fingers under the table. She is sure he is not happy to see her or to acknowledge her existence by the way his mouth forms a thin line, and especially by the way his eyes look at her and judge her. Mrs. Pierce takes her hand and squeezes it gently, for which Santana mentally thanks her. They exchange a graceful nod, and it's good to know at least one of them does not hate her.
"Mr. Pierce," she answers as confidently as she can. "It's a pleasure seeing you and Mrs. Pierce again." It is a blatant lie, but pleasantries ought to be exchanged. She wonders what she is doing there and what exactly was expected of her in that little act of theirs. The ex, the lawyer, the hero, the sinner, the childhood friend: she could be forced to play several roles. Her heart is pounding so fast, she swears the entire restaurant can hear it.
"Same here, Santana. It's been such a long time. Look at how much you've grown!" Santana feels a bit warm at Mrs. Pierce's words. It felt good to receive that kind of easy, maternal affection only she can give. She notices the wrinkles, the thinner skin around the eyes and the few extra pounds, but other than that Brittany's mother still looks the same.
"She's a big lawyer now, mom." Brittany says something for the first time and their eyes meet. All Santana wants to do is hide behind her. She is being scrutinized by the Pierces and she fears she is failing their unspoken trial. Brittany smiles softly at her and the aesthetic perfection of her features strikes Santana once more. "Her office is very nice."
Santana tries to think of a reply, but her mind is still frozen with the pressure of Mr. Pierce's hard eyes and the expectation behind Mrs. Pierce's attitude. She should make things conversational, at least until the main course arrives; going through the entire meal in her current state of nerves is not an option. Thankfully, the waiter arrives at that moment and everyone looks at their own menu to place their orders. She tries to think of something to say when they all go back to staring at each other, but nothing comes to mind.
Brittany's hand sneaks under Santana's, comfortably nesting itself between Santana's palm and Santana's thigh. Santana looks down, surprised, and looks at Brittany. A lot of lines were being crossed with that gesture. They weren't supposed to touch casually or hold hands or talk about their past or about Santana's marriage or about what they were now that they had entered each other lives again. Breathe, Brittany mouths to her, and Santana realizes she had been holding her breath. She looks at their hands again. It feels like sharing a secret, absolutely delightful and forbidden, and she intertwines their fingers.
Brittany is a little overwhelmed by her parents. They are all over the place, asking her questions, demanding explanations she is not sure she can give. They loved John like a son – it feels like a loss for them as well. There is no going back to the previous state of things, however. It sounds like her mother hasn't fully accepted the consequences and that her father isn't fully accepting the divorce. Brittany wonders if he will meet John to have a man-to-man conversation, whatever that means. It sounds like something her father would do.
Her parents are taking Prince Charming for a walk, and then they plan to visit some relatives, which gives her plenty of time to just be alone in her apartment. She decides to stay home and enjoy the blissful moments of silence, a very wise decision so far. She is spending her time organizing, filling the living room with boxes and boxes and more boxes, getting rid of everything that reminds her of John. She has packed his most essential items, like clothing and personal objects, and left them in the studio. But that was a long time ago, and even though the apartment had stopped smelling like him there was still a universe of small objects and habits that had his name written all over them.
She asks herself if she should sell the apartment and maybe start fresh somewhere else. A place with no memories. She doesn't know if she only means the apartment or the studio or even New York. She wonders if that's what it means to run away from your problems. She sighs. Her thoughts are interrupted by the unexpected finding of her Santana Box, and she finds herself stopping and touching it tenderly.
Not a soul knows about the existence of this box. Brittany's fingers linger on the lock. It's hard not to look at Santana and remember growing up and being in love, and this box is a recollection of everything they were and everything she had wanted to forget back then, when they split up. She gives in to temptation and opens it slowly, as if opening her very own Pandora box.
She is allowing herself to be washed over with their past, their sins, and their pain. There are lots of pictures, tokens, notes, gifts. On top of it, however, lays a letter in Santana's handwriting. Brittany bites her lower lip as she sits on the floor and begins to read it. She knows she shouldn't be doing this, but she can't help herself.
Britt,
I know this is a little unexpected. I am not the type to write letters, but there are some things I need to say that I can't bring myself to when you call. It probably makes me a coward, but I can't start saying something and let you interrupt me or misunderstand me. I'm hoping this letter will make things clearer.
I miss you, baby. I miss the sound of your voice brightening me up during the day and I also miss your contagious laugh when I least expect it. I miss taking you out for a movie and for something to eat on a Saturday afternoon, I miss sleeping by your side and the smell of your skin when you just wake up, and I miss listening to you sing in the shower.
It's been two months since we last saw each other, and before that I waited five long months, and before that, three months. It's driving me mad. I dream about you sometimes; dreams where I'm always running after you and never really catching up. We were inseparable before, do you remember? We grew up together, and the idea of spending even a whole month apart always felt like torture.
Well, we're adding up to fourteen months and I'm dying on the inside. I thought we were lucky that we had both escaped to New York when high school ended because it meant we wouldn't be apart. I realize now that I failed to see – or refused to, I don't even know anymore – that your pursuit of a career in dancing meant not only long rehearsals but also long tours, and that I wouldn't be able to follow you. Your career demands you to travel, and mine, to settle.
The worst thing is that I know I'm wrong. I know I have no right to demand anything regarding your professional life. You are the owner of your life and I could never ask you to make that type of sacrifice. You would never ask me such a thing, and you have done nothing but support me and encourage me in every single decision ever since we were kids. It would be nothing but unfair to ask you to bend your life to mine. I am not the most important person in our relationship, Britt.
That doesn't change the fact that I miss you so much it physically aches. I feel lost and empty without you, and I hate myself for that. We should be independent women and I should be a supportive girlfriend, not this needy wreck I'm becoming. I think about your life, the places you visit, all the people that have the privilege of your company, and it makes me feel sick.
You weren't here to see my graduation. I was fired from that first job because of that excuse of a boss and his homophobia, and you didn't even get to hold me as I cried. I was broke and unemployed and struggling for quite some time and you weren't here to cheer me up. You also didn't get to take me out to celebrate when I was accepted at that big corporate office. Your absence hurts me, baby. I've felt like I'm second place in your priorities for such a long time now.
I get that you're having wonderful opportunities and that you should take advantage of them. I get that there's nothing you can do to control your tour dates. But I don't know how long I can go on like this, eternally waiting for a quick visit or for phone calls that feel more like an obligation than a pleasure and only get more rare by the week. I feel like I'm losing you. I feel like this relationship is crumbling from the inside and it's everyone's and no one's fault. Have we lost our connection?
I'm exhausted.
S.
Brittany cries.