Revisited and revised.
06
Alexander stares at Brittany. He's wearing a dark green dress shirt, black dress pants, and she has to admit he looks great. His presence makes it so Santana is not by her side, however. This time, Santana is on Alexander's right, in front of Brittany; except Santana has left the dinner table to take a call, and it's just Alexander staring at Brittany. They have nothing to say to each other and Brittany doesn't know how lawyers make conversation, so she settles for saying nothing.
Alexander doesn't look like he makes small talk. He looks like he is all business and money and cold, hard reality. Brittany wonders why he had even bothered to get to know her. His jealousy is blatant, as well as his possessiveness. It becomes very clear how Santana is his and no one else's by the way he held her waist, pulled her chair, and held her hand. It becomes even more obvious that he sees Brittany as a threat.
She thinks to herself that he is right in his assessment. Long before being his, Santana had belonged to Brittany for much longer than he could ever dream of; so in a way she really is a threat. Not that he would know that – the brunette had made it very clear that her husband did not know about her past, their past, and that it was for the best he remained blissfully ignorant. It triggers a worry in Brittany, a deep certainty the brunette is playing high school all over again, hiding from any prejudice and judgment that might derive from her lesbianism.
Santana returns and Brittany thanks every pagan god for the interruption. Alexander's scrutiny is uncomfortable and invasive, to say the least. They both smile at Santana, because there are words that are never meant to surface. They don't need to say anything, and it works for both to pretend they aren't having a silent dispute. Alexander holds his wife's hand and Brittany feels that the space between her and Santana is much wider than it seems. The smug grin on Alexander's face comes from the sheer pride of being next to Santana. It is indeed an amazing sensation, Brittany thinks.
She snaps out of her trance to smile to Santana and laugh at something she says. Brittany feels like a spectator, unable to take part in the intricate steps of the couple's dance. She is accustomed to being the center of Santana's universe, but things have changed. She now takes the back seat, playing the smallest of roles in the brunette's life. It's better than nothing, but still.
She wishes for the night to be over, already. Alexander has reinforced his opinion of her and his hostility; she is displeased at having to watch Santana in another relationship – she has just realized it's the first time she sees the brunette emotionally invested in anyone but her – and Santana is trying her best to juggle between the two of them, without success.
It feels cold and hollow. For a second only, Brittany allows herself to imagine what it would be like to have Santana. Her eyes fill with an overflowing sadness that she tries to mask by drinking more wine. She forbids herself to imagine such things. They had their chance once, didn't they? This feeling in the pit of her stomach was nothing but nostalgia and one too many glasses of wine.
Deep down, she knows that teaching Santana how to tango is nothing but a bad idea. Tango is too sexy, too intense, too angry. It is an analogy for flirting, with the woman pulling away and the firm hold of the gentleman bringing her back, demanding an inebriating closeness; bodies touching too often for their sake. It just happens, though. Before she can ponder the consequences, the words are escaping her mouth and Santana is accepting the proposal.
Brittany doesn't know what she is doing. She just feels the impending need to recreate the connection they once had, even if at a mere physical level. She feels so lonely yet so happy to be around Santana again that the touching is inevitable. She doesn't know what she would do without the brunette to share the weight of her own life. The last few days with Santana have been amazing, to make everything worse. It's thrilling to once again feel that there's no one else in the world for either of them.
Dancing makes it worse. Brittany is leading, eyes locked with Santana's as she takes one, two, three steps forward, and then makes Santana turn around, bodies touching before Santana languidly distances herself from Brittany. It is absolutely hypnotic to watch Santana's hips as if she were born to dance. Brittany takes Santana in her arms again and she looks away, her right foot going to the left, and then her left foot going to the right as Brittany guides her moves.
Maybe Brittany is doing this because she met Alexander, who gained a layer of reality he had yet to possess. Before that night he was a hypothesis, a mere theoretical exercise. Now, Santana is undeniably married to another lawyer - a tall, serious, and very real man. The gold ring on her finger never looked so bright and big and Brittany cannot oversee it anymore: Santana is married to another. Santana is married to another and that is why Brittany is leading. For those brief moments, there is nothing but them and the blonde gets to take Santana wherever she wants.
The rest of the time, Alexander leads the way.
There's a long moment during which Santana wraps her legs around Brittany and they stare intensely at each other. The blonde imagines herself throwing Santana against the mirror and taking her right then and there. She swirls them around in a complete circle, surprised to see that the brunette doesn't lose her balance. "If I hadn't know better, I'd say you can actually tango."
Santana smirks. "Barely," she answers, performing a succession of quick steps in harmony with the beat. It's a pleasant, enticing surprise. Her lips are lustful and too close. Brittany pushes her away and distances herself in the name of self-control. Santana comes closer again and they dance across the room. "You should wear a hat, though." Her grin has mischief written all over it and it automatically reminds her of sex. "You know, just for the sake of the music."
Brittany can barely think of anything. "I do have one," she offers. It's a beautiful hat, bought in Buenos Aires two years before. "But you would have to wear a dress." The mental image is thrilling and makes her smile. The music ends, but they don't quite break apart. For a long moment, they just listen to each other's breathing, enjoying the closeness. Santana's lips are parted open and a little too inviting. It becomes harder not to relive her dreams; dreams of sweat and moans and Santana's naked body.
Her phone rings and breaks the moment. "I should get that," she says, distracted, turning her back to Santana to get her purse. Her heart is racing uncontrollably and her voice trembles a bit as she says hi to Jim and strikes up a conversation about the auditions the following day. Her eyes purposefully avoid the brunette, focusing instead on her own feet.
Brittany wakes up in the middle of the night and can't bring herself to sleep again. She is going to face John in two days and the thought of it is terrifying. Santana will be by her side, of course, but still. After the encounter in the studio when Santana made him leave, she hadn't had a glimpse of her soon-to-be ex-husband. After an hour fussing in bed, she decides to get up, drink some milk, and pass the time.
She stares out the window. New York is a hard town, sometimes, she thinks to herself as she sees concrete and automobiles. She spends a few moments in contemplation before heating up her milk. Prince Charming wakes up, but barely registers her presence before going back to sleep. She sits by the window, cup in hand.
She should be thinking about Jim and his proposal for her to work with him. She should be thinking of choreography and auditions and the work it is going to take, and how grateful she is to Jim for thinking of her in the most perfect of moments. Instead, she thinks of Alexander's hand on the small of Santana's back, about Santana's perfume as they danced. She doesn't even realize she is doing it.
She thinks of their past, the good and the bad, and all the things that were left unsaid, that remained unspoken, as if bringing it up would mean to risk breaking the little they had rebuilt. She thinks about John and the loving husband he was until he wasn't. About the amazing chemistry she had had with him the first time they danced onstage. She thinks about Santana in her Cheerios uniform, and then Santana singing Songbird to her, and then Santana graduating from high school.
She opens her Santana Box once more. There is something in there that is exactly what she needs. She needs to remind herself they were far from perfect. Their time together hadn't come to an end without a reason, without a succession of happenings building up to a breaking point. She finds an envelope and runs her thumb over it in a gentle caress. Brittany has never been one for words, but there were moments where the occasion called for them.
At that moment, after all was said and done, she wishes she had actually sent this letter.
Santana,
I dreamed of you last night. It was awesome. We were at a beach, walking hand in hand. The sun was shining, the sand was white and warm and there were even a few birds flying. I was wearing a blue bikini and carrying our stuff and you were in a green bikini, looking smoking hot as usual. I felt happy.
You placed a big towel on the sand and lay down on your stomach. I took the sunscreen, straddled you and began to apply it. Of course, the sunscreen was only an excuse to massage your body entirely. It took the longest of times, going through your back, your legs, your shoulders, your arms, and everything I could touch. When I was finished, you were asleep, grinning. I smiled and got up, took my surfing board – yes, I had a board, a white and blue one, how cool is that? – and got in the water.
The waves were perfect and the water was just a little bit cool. I could surf very well in the dream. Being in the water made me feel happy and free, even when I fell from the board. I liked to stretch my hand just to touch the water, to feel it in my fingers. When I got tired I let myself be, floating with my board and staring at the birds on the sky.
When I got back you were already awake, propping yourself up on your elbows, laying on your back, and looking at me with the same wild look you used to get when you watched me shower after Cheerios practice. I sat by your side in silence. You said I was a very good surfer and that you could watch me forever.
Our lips met and I got you to lie down again, then got on top of you. You told me I tasted salty, and I answered you tasted like orange juice. Then we kissed again and you let me lead. I kissed you very slowly, playing with your lips in that way that gets you to make those little noises. Your skin was hot from being exposed to the sun and I felt cold from being in the water, but the contrast wasn't unpleasant at all.
We had stopped for a moment and you were looking right into my eyes when I woke up. Now that I think about it, I've dreamed a lot about water and beaches and things like that this last week. Does that mean anything? I have an aunt that says dreams always mean something. You just have to figure them out.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I miss you and Barcelona isn't half as amazing as it should be because I keep thinking about how I would love to see it with you. I think the dream felt great because it was just you and me. I'm so far away from you, and when I go to NY you're always so busy and I always feel so guilty for taking your time and getting in the way of your studies and the life I know you lead when I'm far.
I miss being together. It's so hard to understand you when I'm not looking at your face as we speak. Those long silences and the sound of your breathing say a lot less than the way your brow furrows or your fingers move or how you walk or how your hold onto something. I can't tell if you believe me when I say I miss you and the reason you get so jealous of some dancers is really, really silly. I have loved you all my life, don't you remember?
Don't get me wrong when I say this, but you're being needy and insecure and selfish like never before. Our relationship has been about you and your needs, not once about me. When was the last time you asked me how I felt? I can tell you're suffering, but I am too. My hours are long and a moment in the spotlight is a war here. A bit like the Cheerios, sometimes, with the difference I was the best dancer there and never asked for attention and now I'm one among many and I want as many solos as I can get. But you don't know that, do you? I feel like I don't have a chance to tell you.
I don't see right through you anymore. I love you, but maybe the distance and the different worlds we live in are building walls between you and me. We barely get along with each other's friends. And because I love you, it hurts so much. Everything is changing and I'm not keeping up. You are changing, too, and I don't know why, and I can't stop you. We're dancing to different beats.
Love,
B.
Alexander's arrival is like a cold shower to Santana. Her life goes back to normal, depriving her of the time to have dinner, ice cream, coffee or anything else with Brittany as much as she'd like, and reminding her she has someone to come home to at the end of the day. She notices his jealousy and does her best to reassure him he is the only one, but it isn't clear how convincing she is. He looks like he's buying the act, but it only lasts as long as he doesn't hear about anything to do with the blonde.
He is possessive with her in a way she could never be, and it shows. She is his number one priority, and at the end of the day he has built his life around her. She has done the same, too, but it's far from what he has done and she was never as emotionally invested as he is. She sees it now. She sees it now that Brittany is back and the need to be around her is so much more intense than the need to come home to Alexander.
She still smiles and lets him hold her hand and make love to her like nothing has changed and she even lets her breathing become shallow and rapid so he thinks she is still responding to the same touches. She tries to hold it together because she knows it will pass and her marriage will thrive above this. Alexander does not deserve any of it, she tells herself as she examines his handsome features in bed before he wakes up.
An idea strikes her. If there is one person who can understand the need to project the perfect image, to envision and conquer her goals and, at the same time, who knows about her path in life, it's Quinn Fabray. She gets up and writes an e-mail so long she almost misses Pilates that morning.
This is not the first time Brittany leaves the house for a quick jog in search for some kind of release. Too unsettled with her own life and too impatient for the solitude and silence, she jogs. At times it lasts less than thirty minutes; at others it lasts hours, as she allows herself to be lost in the immensity and anonymity that is New York. It comes from a sudden urge to move, to do something with her body to take the edge off.
It doesn't work every time. Sometimes she gets home as frustrated and flustered as she left, and she begins to dislike her apartment without even knowing why. She showers and she eats, accompanied by a vague feeling she can't figure out. Sometimes she calls a friend and goes out, but she is far from being a party girl and that can't be done every night.
She still doesn't have the guts to take the edge off by having sex with anyone.
She's in shorts, sweaty and breathless from running, when someone knocks on the door. Asking herself who it could be, she opens the door. It's John. She freezes, taking a step back to physically distance herself from him. "Brittany," he says, and all she can think is that she wants Santana, who would figure this out and handle the situation assertively and effectively. She wants Santana, with her pragmatism and fierceness, to make him leave.
But Santana is not there. "You shouldn't be here."
He seems to think she has somehow allowed him to step into the home he shattered with his own wrongdoings and enters the house. "This is my house, too," he answers, frowning when she takes a few more steps back, rebuilding the space between them. "And we can't not talk forever." She hates him for cheating, she hates him for leaving her like that, she hates that every relationship she's had has ended painfully.
"We'll talk tomorrow, with the lawyers." She pauses. "There are some mistakes I can't forgive." He is the personification of her current state of life, of her pain, but he is also the personification of such a huge part of her. She loves his smell, she loves the sound of his voice, she loves that he never stopped giving her small gifts, she loved when he looked at her just for the sake of looking at her and she could feel the soft affection emanating from him.
"Britt," he says softly and walks towards her until he's closer than she'd like. She feels trapped between the sofa and John, her heartbeat going out of control as she stares at the wall to her right. She doesn't get what he could possibly want from going there and her cellphone is nowhere in sight, so she can't call Santana. "I'm sorry for this mess."
"Then you shouldn't have cheated on me in the first place!" she says, looking at him again, hands going to his chest to push him away. She's crying already, crying for what she has lost and, mostly, crying for what could have been a happy life together.
He holds her wrists to stop her from pushing and doesn't let go. She immediately regrets establishing physical contact. "I'm sorry for breaking you. Let's try again. We were so good before." She's sobbing uncontrollably, asking herself what she did to deserve any of this. Bad things shouldn't happen to good people.
He takes advantage of her lack of response and kisses her. She doesn't shove him away, so he keeps on kissing. She's hurt, everything in her life is confusing and improper and she is so thirsty and desperate for something, anything at all. When he tries to deepen the kiss, she lets him, hoping that maybe it can solve things, maybe its what she needs. When clothes begin falling on the floor and he has her on the couch, it feels pleasant and absolutely unfulfilling.
Brittany feels dirty. She disentangles herself from John and goes take a shower. Her mistake sinks in too fast and she begins to panic. Why did she do this a day before it could all be over? Was she sabotaging her divorce? God, what would Santana say? She feels like vomiting and crying and running away at the same time. She can't answer her own questions and she's afraid she has ruined everything.
The shower is long and she scrubs herself frantically, as if wanting to erase every single trace of her (ex?) husband. What she felt was wrong to her, to him, to Santana, and would only make things worse. He would now be confident there was a chance; but one good thing that came out of it is that Brittany now sees John is no longer the answer. She's still unsatisfied, craving something else. She doesn't cry.
When she leaves the bathroom she realizes she has no plan. Being there is not a possibility: John can wake up at any moment. She doesn't know where to go or who to call. She doesn't want to burden her friends with her personal mess. She puts on some clothes and gets her purse, finding her cell phone in it. As standard procedure, she dials Santana's number – she never learned how to use speed dial, anyway.
She answers on the first ring. "Brittany? Has something happened?" Her voice is a tad huskier than usual, and only then does Brittany realize that most people are asleep at that time. For the first time, she feels like she's intruding on Santana's life, claiming a right that isn't hers to begin with. For a moment, she doesn't know what to say. "Brittany?"
"Can I come over?" She asks, avoiding the question. She doesn't want to have this conversation over the phone. She doesn't want to have this conversation at all; the only thing she needs is to see the brunette.
Santana doesn't hesitate. "Of course," she says, giving Brittany her address. "I'll be waiting for you."
Santana waits by the door, wearing a white nightgown, and wonders what might have happened. Luckily enough, Alexander hadn't woken up. God bless that heavy sleeper, she thinks. The taxi finally arrives and Brittany comes right to her arms. Santana can tell she has been crying, so she does nothing but hold her tight, one hand going to the blonde's hair and the other enveloping her firmly by the waist. Brittany fists her gown, head hidden in the crook of Santana's neck. The brunette closes the door with her foot and just stays there, breathing in sweet perfume as she fills with worry.
It must have been something serious enough to make Brittany fall into old patterns and come to Santana at such an ungodly hour. Brittany steps back a little to look in Santana's eyes and her mouth opens and closes, as if she's trying to say something but can't quite bring herself to. Santana cups both of her cheeks. "It's okay," she says, trying to read the strangled look in Brittany's face, too concerned to notice their bodies are still touching completely.
Brittany nods weakly. Santana takes them both to the couch. She mentally thanks Alexander for having insisted in such a big, comfortable piece – really, they have a guest room already, why have a couch two people can sleep on? – because when she sits down, Brittany automatically sits between her legs, the right side of her body turned to Santana, and there's still plenty of space. They stay like that for God knows long, Santana's arm encircling Brittany, protecting her, their fingers intertwined.
She looks at the blonde with tender eyes, because she looks so small and hurt. She tightens her hold, wishing some of the sadness would rub off on her and lighten the weight on Brittany's shoulders. She holds her, because she has never done anything else but to hold her and take care of her. It gives her purpose; it gives her meaning. "It's gonna be okay," she whispers, even if she doesn't have the slightest clue of what is going on.
Brittany cries softly and Santana's heart clenches in response. They say you never forget your first love, but this isn't just about forgetting, it's waking up from a long dream. The feeling she once had doesn't seem to have subsided, and maybe time doesn't heal at all. Santana does what she knows best—comfort Brittany through tact—and kisses her wet cheek, her wet chin, jawline, hand on the back of her neck as she proceeds with a ritual that could pass for worshipping. She kisses away the tears as Brittany's hands hold onto her clothes and don't let go.
When she reaches Brittany's neck, her tears have ceased, replaced by soft sighs. Blue eyes are closed, breaths evening out, fingers going to Santana's hair. Santana herself feels calmer, for touching is as soothing as being touched. Brittany exposes her neck a bit more, and they're so intertwined Santana fears if she dares say anything she'll wake up from a dream.
Their eyes lock for a long moment. Brittany touches her cheek and Santana kisses her pulse. "Everything will end up okay, sweetheart." She kisses it again and again and again. "You will get through everything, do you hear me?" Brittany nods and mumbles a thank you. Santana boops her nose and they settle in a more comfortable position. They both fall asleep without moving, tangled in each other.