Edit: Revisited and revised, at last.
10
Santana reaches for her lighter. It is a beautiful piece, silver and elegant, with her father's initials engraved on it. He did not know that, 10 years earlier, she couldn't resist the temptation of taking it with her back to New York after vising her family for Christmas. She knew she wouldn't be a suspect: her family was far from imagining that their little girl was a casual smoker. She stares at it with a sense of pride, for having successfully stolen it and for it being the only item that served as a token of her old, authoritative father.
She lights up a cigar - a good one, Cuban, as she is no woman to have it cheap - and savors it. She takes a long drag, observing the smoke as it rises in the air. Smoking has always been a transgressive act, as much as it meant time for pondering. She's alone, because she always smokes alone; Brittany and Alexander both hate it.
Her phone buzzes, disturbing her peace. She doesn't have to look at it to know it's Alexander. Where are you, Santana, what are you doing, Santana, you should be home, Santana, how come you're doing something without my knowledge, Santana, does it mean you're cheating on me with that woman, Santana, Santana, Santana, Santana... She turns her phone off with her free hand, not slightly interested in picking up.
One more drag and she closes her eyes. Her therapist's voice echoes in her head: why did you let yourself lose control over your own life? She never answered it, of course. How does one answer a question like that? She thinks and thinks, but no conclusion is reached. Another drag. She knows she's getting to a breaking point of some sort. She knows she needs to make something out of it.
Alexander is pushing. He is worried, unsettled, questioning. He is overwhelming with his lack of trust and he has become offensive with his subtle homophobia. She looks around in the dim light, eyes stopping at his picture. He's handsome and heteronormative, invalidating her relationship with Brittany as experimenting. Their marriage was her return to normalcy, because she had always belonged in heteroville. One more drag and nicotine fills her lungs. She's taking it all in quietly; very aware that the moment she talks back a small domestic war will break out.
She wonders if there is any chance they could find each other again, reach some kind of balance once more. They had degenerated into pure appearances, saving their marriage only for the general public's eye. She wonders if she will have the courage to end things, if necessary. They had a house, investments, a law firm together. Their lives were tangled, for better or for worse. She sighs.
Another drag. Smoking is soothing, and she slowly returns to a calmer state. Her father-in-law wouldn't be pleased if he knew what was going on. Alexander came from a long line of lawyers; his place in Harvard Law was well secured long before he was born. Their law firm belonged to his father before him, and to his grandfather before his father. His family had been in the business for at least 150 years, from what Santana could recall. Their success and high earnings should be credited to a successful past as much as their own merits. Alexander I, the great patriarch, was retired, but still had power over the firm. Santana had to prove herself several times - she was an unexpected wife, a Latina with a middle class upbringing refusing to settle as a housewife - but it was unlikely she would remain in the firm if anything happened.
Separation implies unemployment, she thinks bitterly before putting out her cigar.
When the curtains close for the last time and applause breaks out, Brittany and Jim hug each other in excitement. The dancers soon drift towards them, hugging and laughing as well. All the work, all the training, it had paid off. The critics had been receptive, and compliments surpassed complaints; the audience had been nearly full most nights; and there were no major mistakes on stage. Brittany's smile betrays a certainty that things were starting to work out for the best in her life.
A bouquet of lilies arrives and the entire crew gathers around her in curiosity. Brittany accepts it, confused, hoping it wasn't some random guy trying to get into her pants. There is a note, however, that says: You are much more graceful than your lead dancer. Still, congratulations. It isn't signed, but she can recognize that handwriting anywhere. She opens the curtains to have a look at the rustling of the audience leaving, and recognizes Santana for a moment. Was she really there? Was she not imagining things? It wouldn't be the first time she had thought she saw that familiar face among the crowd only to be disappointed seconds later. Still, she goes to the exit as soon as she can.
"Santana?" She calls out, searching. Much to her surprise, Santana turns, standing out in a beautiful red dress. Brittany's heart races out of astonishment caused by Santana's attendance. How had she known? Had she liked it? Oh God, what if she hadn't? Brittany offers a hand for Santana to take and leads them back inside.
"You weren't supposed to find me." She says, and if she weren't Santana Lopez, Brittany would say she's looking shy. "It was great." She had imagined this conversation, Santana's reaction to the performance, Santana's opinion on this and that. Back in the day, Santana would watch her performances and attend every rehearsal she could manage, the perfect incarnation of the supportive girlfriend, accumulating a knowledge most people wouldn't expect. "I'm proud." Brittany beams with the best feedback she could hope to get, hands still lingering in Santana's grasp for a few more moments until she realizes what she's doing and lets go.
"Is this the famous Santana Lopez?" Jim cuts in, a hand on Brittany's shoulder as he offers his other hand to greet Santana. Santana nods and shakes the hand firmly, like she was taught to. "It's a pleasure." He adds with a smile. There's a hint of something in Santana's eyes Brittany can't quite put her finger on.
"I hope you heard nothing but good things." Santana says, as charming as she knows how to be, and as she engages in a conversation with Jim about the performance, it takes no time for Brittany to see how easily Santana wins him over. Brittany smiles when they start to talk about her, all compliments and teasing. Her eyes never leave Santana's, watching her every reaction, her every smile, searching for signs of insincerity or annoyance that never surface, not during the conversation, not even when the dancers come and Jim asks her to go out celebrating with their pack and she agrees.
"Thank you." She whispers to Santana's ear hours later, when they're all stuffed with food and wine and feeling on top of the world. "For everything." Santana looks at her with hazy eyes and a lazy smile from one too many glasses, and holds her hand. Brittany smiles too, feeling warm over everything that's been handed to her lately, for Jim, for the dancers, for Santana, for joining everyone in the same table and having the interaction run as smoothly as possible, for those parts of her life coming together effortlessly.
They are disturbed before Santana can say anything. "You guys make such a cute couple." Her second lead makes the comment out of the blue, after watching Brittany and Santana's interaction. Her cheeks are red and she obviously wouldn't have the guts to say so if the setting was different from the drunken haze of a bar. Brittany bites her lower lip, heart pacing faster and faster in the expectation of hearing Santana's response. Would it be positive, negative, would it end up working as a set back to how far they had gone, to how much they had achieved in the re-building of their relationship?
The answer ends up being surprising.
"Yeah, we always did, ever since our hot cheerleader days." Santana says, winking at Brittany and placing a stray of blond hair behind her ear. "But that was a long time ago." She adds, showing the enormous gold ring on her finger. "And now I am happily married to someone else." Brittany can't interpret the tone of Santana's voice - whether she was hiding her feelings or there was too much alcohol in her blood, she wouldn't know. The dancer turns an even darker shade of red, if that was possible, mumbling something incoherent as an apology and looking as awkward as ever. "Breathe." Santana commands, holding her gaze. "People have assumed that ever since we were teenagers. Let's just forget it, shall we?"
Brittany walks alongside Santana as they head to Brittany's place with the lame excuse that it's closer and more convenient. Brittany mulls over a multitude of things as a comfortable silence falls and there is no noise except birds singing to announce another day and the hum of the car engine. Brittany wonders why Santana had asked to sleep at her place at the end of their night out, just before the sun began to rise, and why Santana had turned off her phone when it started ringing.
Brittany thinks about Santana's mysterious answer, about her "happily married" and how her eyes grew soft at the mention of them as a couple. She's not fooling her, of all people, with her determination to take things normally; they are nothing but normal, nothing but ordinary, and their past is still a sore spot, no matter which façade she decides to put on. There's a tension in her shoulders and a stiffness to her posture that betray her high levels of stress and Brittany doesn't think it is all professional. Santana's resolution to go out and enjoy the night until everyone went home had a layer to it that she couldn't decipher. But she wasn't going to ask in front of several other people, so she let it go and embraced Santana's thirst for wine and Santana's laugh and how good it felt to be around her and have fun without the reminder of their baggage.
Santana chooses that moment to look at her and smile. "I had fun tonight." Brittany smiles back and nods in agreement. "We should do it more often." She says, staring at the ground. Their hands are touching casually, making Brittany want to hold Santana's hand in hers. It's forbidden, and it's too much too fast, so she just bites her lower lip and refrains from it. "It's not something I do very often." She mumbles, but Brittany hears it.
"Why? What's wrong?" She asks immediately, full of concern.
"I shouldn't have said that. Nothing." Santana answers just as quickly, still staring at the ground. Brittany sighs, because Santana is still closing up, protecting herself from a bruise that has a more concrete existence inside her head than anywhere else. She wants to be there for Santana, but the other woman has to let her.
She's opening the door to her apartment when she turns to Santana with a serious expression. "San, we agreed on honesty, remember? No more white lies." She asks, opening the door for Santana to come in. Santana doesn't answer immediately, eyes searching the living room and taking in the surroundings: the old table Brittany had bought in an antique store; the leather couch; the fish in the tank; the wall covered in pictures and posters. There are several of the two of them in different moments in life, and Santana approaches one of them in their early twenties, during a particularly cold winter, laughing and smiling under the snow. Brittany had her hair longer back then, yellow curls falling under her furry hat like a mermaid, sharing some kind of moment with Santana with shorter hair and combat boots in one of her various experimentations with style. Quinn is in the next picture over, holding the camera with her arm stretched as Brittany hugs Santana and it gives Brittany so many Unholy Trinity feelings that she has to look away.
"I miss this." Santana says finally as if answering her question, nostalgic and sad. "I miss you, I miss hanging out with Quinn." Brittany puts a hand on her shoulder, her thumb caressing Santana's soft, tan skin. "It was easy. I was sure of so many things, including what I was and where I was heading." There's a long silence in which there's nothing but their breathing, because Brittany doesn't know why Santana is saying that and she doesn't know what to say in response. "It's not easy anymore. I'm tired of everything." Santana is looking everywhere but at Brittany: at the floor, pictures, posters, her own nails. "My marriage is falling apart." She finally says with a shaky voice.
Santana is lost; she loses herself so easily sometimes, letting the wrong things lead her life and decide what's worth it. It's huge, to witness Santana's walls breaking and her several layers falling to the ground, almost poetic in a way. Brittany pulls her close. "Thanks for telling me. I'm sorry you have to go through that." She says honestly, touched by Santana's pain, and runs a hand through Santana's hair because she would be damned if she would let their unspoken limits get in the way in a moment like that.
She's at a cafe, talking to Jim, giving herself some rest, wondering what she could do with her life now that their performance was over and she was back to being jobless, not having saved much money. She had been warned of how unreliable a career in dancing could be, of how young she would have to quit, of how much she needed a backup plan she refused to follow. She remembers choosing to work in an international company in her 20s because this could be it and she was terrified of becoming obsolete without having made any real statement or real achievement.
Jim and her are reminiscing about the dancers, about the thrill of putting up a small and successful show, about the time they first met and how great everything was back then. She looks at him and sees the lines on his face betraying how long it had passed since, trying to fit her new idea into words. She had come to the realization that a few of Bach's violin concertos could become a love story, and she had drafted a choreography that she wanted to show him.
He looks surprised, but interested. She takes a notebook out of her purse and starts to explain. He listens closely, eyes never leaving the paper. "This is actually a good idea. I never thought you'd be a choreographer." He says, but he's smiling. She just shrugs and sips her cappuccino, trying not to feel too flattered. He seems to think for a moment. "You know, this might just work. It's new. It's sincere." The tip of his pen hits the paper several times; Brittany doesn't dare interrupt. "We should just keep it small. No fancy scenarios, a small crew, a low budget. You and I running the whole thing. Do you think you can do this?"
Wait, had she gotten herself yet another project? Brittany could barely believe it. She hadn't really expected to be taken seriously, let alone so enthusiastically. "Yes, of course. I have No.1 sketched already, and along with No.2 they should take 25 minutes or something. And there's the Concerto for Two Violins, a little less than 20 minutes."
He claps. "Perfect! Forty-five minutes is just what we need. It could be divided into two parts. We do need two people to play the violin, of course. It would be just perfect." He holds her hand. She can see his mind is working a thousand miles per hour; it's one of his best traits. "We should meet again next week to discuss the details."
"We definitely should."
The chatter of other people's conversations fills the room. The restaurant is full with modern women looking for a low-calorie lunch; it's the latest New York Times hit. Santana likes it there, with its green and fancy hippie decor. The food is all organic, locally produced, and the waitresses know the correct pronunciation to every foreign dish in the menu. They held meditation classes every Thursday at 7pm.
Santana and Samantha share a salad on their lunch break. After reaching the conclusion that red is too overused, Samantha is now a blonde with a shorter haircut. It's been months since they last saw each other, and it's good to see that even if Samantha's hair is in permanent transformation, her wit and humor haven't faded.
They are finishing their overpriced green tea when Santana finally says why she called Samantha. "Samantha, I called you because I want to ask you something." She pauses, looking at her plate for a moment. "But it'll have to remain between you and me for now." Samantha nods and waits for Santana to continue. It's not the easiest thing to do; she never voiced this to anyone else before. Santana opens and closes her mouth a few times. "I want a divorce."
"Oh, darling." Samantha looks sincerely shocked, holding the cup in her hand midair. "Is that why you asked me all those questions a few months ago?" Santana doesn't like the worry and pity in her eyes. She hates being vulnerable, to have people feeling sorry for her. She was supposed to be a fortress, to be invincible.
"Oh, no no no." She answers, looking into Samantha's eyes. She doesn't want to think of Brittany at that moment. "But I can't lie to myself anymore." She feels breathless; her hands are probably shaking, but she refuses to check. She has to keep going, no matter what. There is no turning back. "I trust you. But you're Alexander's friend, too, and I understand if you don't want to get involved in this."
"Don't worry. You have done a lot for me in the past. Let me return the favor a little." Samantha pauses for a moment, as if she just realized something, brow furrowing discreetly. "Does Alexander know about this?"
Santana sighs. "He knows we're not okay. We have been going to couple's therapy for a while." A very long while, she could add. But she doesn't; she sips her green tea instead. The problem with therapists was trying to get to the root of things and there was much more than her husband could ever imagine. "But I know he isn't considering divorce as an option."
Samantha nods quietly. "Sorry if this is too personal, but… Why?"
Santana bites her lip as she searches for an answer. She can't say too much; it would be too polemic and complicated for a quick lunch. You just don't tell people you are a lesbian right after you tell them you're divorcing. "I'm not happy." She finally says. It's perhaps the truest statement she has ever made. "I haven't been happy in a while." When had she let herself get to this? She wouldn't know. She sighs again. "I need to… figure some things out."
"You didn't cheat on him, did you?"
She doesn't even know what to answer to that. She wasn't that kind of person, for the love of God. She would never do that to Alexander. "Of course not, Samantha! Who do you think I am?" A lesbian. Lesbian. Lesbian. "It's just… not working anymore." Samantha doesn't need to know why, for the moment. Soon, Santana tells herself. Soon.
"I know. I'm sorry." Samantha sighs and nods as the waiter takes their plates away. "This can't be easy for you." And that, Santana thinks, is the understatement of the year.
"I know he won't take it well." She tries to imagine his reaction; it's all she has done for the past few days. How, and when, could she even tell him? During dinner? Before breakfast? During the weekend? Should she have packed already? Should she make him leave the house? Would both of them move out? "You do remember the firm has been in his family for over a century."
Samantha's eyes grow bigger. Smart girl. "So you're…"
"Probably unemployed." Santana nods and hands her credit card to the waiter for their check. She thinks to herself how funny it is that she's more concerned about telling Alexander than about being unemployed. At least she still had a heart somewhere. "I can't imagine Alexander II taking this news too well. And his family does have the majority of the votes."
There's a long silence. "Quite a change." Samantha finally says.
"Quite a change." Santana repeats.