I know; It took me perhaps too long. But here I am, and chapter 12 is ready and should be published within a few days, too. Chapter 13 is being written, and I'm planning for it to be the last. I hope you enjoy the ride as we approach the end.
On with the story.
11
It's evening. Alexander is wearing a white shirt, a few buttons opened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He got home from work just a while ago. He looks at Santana, her hair down, in a black dress and a black blazer, sitting by his side on the couch.
Santana looks back at Alexander. He frowns and blinks, confused. She takes his hand. "This is not working out. We are not okay." She pauses — the house is big and empty and even her most shallow breaths seem to echo, bouncing on every wall. "We haven't been okay for a while now." She feels the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, but she holds them back.
Alexander takes her hand and scoots closer. "I know."
"We have done everything we could." She had done everything she could to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she had succeeded for ten long years. She had been happy, at times; maybe that was the best one could hope for. "We gave us a try."
"Santana, you're not—" He takes a breath and she sees his eyes widening.
She bites her lip. "I think it's time to part ways. It's going to do us well."
For the first time in eight years, he cries in front of her.
"I'm sorry," she says to him as she pulls him to her, for a hug. "I'm so sorry."
Santana's taxi stops in front of Brittany's building. It's 5am and Santana hasn't slept all night, but she tries not to show it. She opens the door for Brittany and the driver puts the bag in the trunk. "To the airport," she tells him.
Santana looks at Brittany's sleepy face staring out of the window and sighs. Truth be told, Brittany is an exception in every sense. She's an exception because Santana has loved her with eyes closed, trusting someone else's judgment and putting herself in a position to be crushed - which did eventually happen. She continues to be an exception because Santana doesn't know how not to be forgiving and thoughtful with her and because she is still all over Santana.
When the airplane leaves the ground there's a sharp anxiety. She's leaving town without a husband; she plays with the wedding ring on her finger, worrying the skin underneath. She's leaving to see Quinn for the first time in three years — had it really been that long? She wonders how an eight-month-pregnant Quinn looks.
Brittany's feet are touching hers, but Santana is ignoring it. Brittany's holding her hand and tracing small patterns, but she's ignoring it. She opens a magazine to pass time. Brittany reads it with her, head in the crook of her neck, and it feels peaceful. "I'm glad we came together." She says softly, and Santana hums in agreement, squeezing the other woman's hand for a brief moment.
Quinn has set a table outside for breakfast — she's placing a few flowers in a small vase when they arrive. She's beautiful, as she's always been. Her hair is short and her yellow summer dress makes her look like she could outshine any star.
"Look at you!" Brittany screams as soon as she's out of the car, and runs to Quinn. She hugs the shorter woman and kisses the top of her head. "You're pregnant!"
Santana pays the taxi driver and takes their luggage to the porch before smiling at Quinn. "You look great." She offers before she's pulled into a three-way hug.
"I'm so glad you are both here," Quinn says in a small voice, and Santana hugs her tighter.
"We missed you," Brittany answers, and it's as simple as that. Santana can feel her smile, her warmth, and she can't find any words in that moment.
The cake is warm and fresh from the oven, the coffee is organic and everything tastes amazing. Quinn tells them about doctors and appointments and finding out about the baby. She tells them of her husband's adoration, of her crazy sex hormones, and preparing a house for someone new.
Brittany tells them about her new project, and she looks so happy and excited Santana's heart clenches. When was the last time she felt complete like that?
"What's wrong, Santana?" Quinn asks, and Santana wishes her friend wasn't so observant and spot on. Santana looks at her, at Brittany, and at the ring on her finger.
She takes it off. "I'm going to get divorced." It shines in the sunlight. She drinks from her mug of coffee. "I broke up with him yesterday." She can't even say his name.
Quinn's hand covers her right hand and Brittany's hand covers her left hand. "I'm really sorry," Quinn says, and Santana knows she understands everything. "You deserve to be happy." She tells Santana with conviction, and Santana nods.
Quinn's husband has thick glasses and curly hair; he's soft and gentle and Santana likes him. He arrives with flowers for Quinn, Brittany and Santana, 'because he wants to make them feel welcomed'. They all blush graciously in unison, and Quinn has lilies, Brittany has gardenias and Santana has camellias.
"I'm really happy you could be here," he says as he takes his hat off and enters the house. His smile shows the small wrinkles around his eyes. "I'm going to cook you lunch and then we can finish preparing for the baby shower."
He's a writer, and he just might be the best boyfriend Quinn has ever had. He's got the same kind of brains as her, with his love of the written word and noir movies. He's an environmental activist and he works for a magazine to make ends meet. When Quinn and him first met she had been assigned to interview him for a piece on new authors — he asked her out right after the fifth question, and she said yes.
Their first date was a book reading and Quinn told Santana the next day, "I think I just found someone special".
Brittany is on a ladder, putting up the last bits of decoration; Santana is carrying a tray of food and Quinn's arranging the napkins when someone knocks on the door. It's early in the afternoon, too early for guests, and the three of them share a look of curiosity.
Quinn opens the door and — it's Puck, tall, actual hair on his head, nicely shaved. "I didn't know if I should, but I brought you something," he says, showing the large gift in his hands.
"Please, do come in." Quinn gestures for him to enter, and his eyes widen at the sight of Brittany and Santana.
He greets them both and sits on the couch and frets a bit, unsure. "We haven't really spoken in a long time, but I thought—" he stops and handles Quinn the gift. "I was going to be here for a sports event, so it wouldn't be difficult to pass by, anyway." He breathes again.
Quinn touches his shoulder. "Thank you," she says. Santana looks at them and how he looks at Quinn, always apologetic.
He tries to smile, but there's an old sadness to it. "I always knew you'd be a great mamma."
Quinn opens the gift and it's a bathtub for babies, colorful and beautiful. She looks at it for a long time, and she looks at Puck — and they had a baby together, and they gave it up, and so much time has passed; Santana catches her breath without realizing, afraid to interrupt the moment.
"Thank you," Quinn repeats. "You're going to be great too, someday."
"Someday," he answers, running a hand through his short hair. "When I'm not too busy as a sports commentator, maybe." He winks at Santana and she rolls her eyes, but smiles; it's good to see he still has his groove.
Santana remembers the troubled boy she met once and the handsome man he is now and, as they make conversation, she thinks of how time goes by so quickly.
He leaves as the first guests arrive. "It was just a quick hello," he says. "I have a meeting this afternoon," he explains. Maybe he has, maybe he doesn't — maybe he doesn't want to see Quinn's husband, who has left to run some errands.
Santana prefers not to speculate.
The baby shower is eclectic and fun. There are the writers, with their beards and sad eyes or short hair and long necklaces — they welcome Santana into their conversation and some of them are parents, but not all of them; they settle for discussing politics and things get heated.
Brittany watches them fondly from afar: Santana's little frown, her assertiveness, her ability to draw attention to herself in a discussion. She's talking to the moms, older women whose children run around in the garden and play hide and seek. They remind her of Santana's mom in their kindness and calm, and they sympathize when Brittany tells them she's recently divorced.
One of them gives her a cookie and tells her she has to keep her spirits up and love herself, because she knows how hard it is to end a relationship. Brittany nods and lets them talk, sneaking a few glances to Santana.
She's gorgeous. She's wearing black slacks, a white blouse and her hair is down and free. She has filled in all the right places and her face transformed into maturity and elegance. She's single now, and hurting — Brittany bites her lip and tries to focus back on the conversation.
Santana looks at Brittany. Brittany looks away, caught in her staring.
The baby shower is almost over. Santana has left to get them drinks, and some guy takes the opportunity to hit on Brittany. He's shorter than her, and he's balding, and his hair is too thin; he looks cocky and arrogant.
He asks her who she is and what she's doing and how come he never saw her before; Brittany dislikes him immediately but she doesn't know what to do, how to say it. He takes a step closer, and she takes a step back.
"And what's a beautiful girl like you doing alone?" He asks her, and it's hard not to roll her eyes at it.
Santana walks and interrupts the conversation. "Hi baby, got you your soda." She says, handling Brittany her drink and using her free arm to pull her close and kiss her cheek. "And you are...?" She asks the man, a fake smile and a possessive hand on Brittany's waist, her body touching Brittany's.
"I'm Victor." He answers, looking back and forth at the two of them. Brittany looks at Santana and finally understands it: Santana's pretending to be her girlfriend to make him go away. She smiles at Santana; her hand goes to Santana's shoulders, and it's exhilarating — for a moment it's almost like they're a power couple again.
Santana gives him a brief nod. "Nice to meet you. I'm Santana." She offers, with no other explanation whatsoever.
Brittany kisses the spot beneath Santana ear. It's almost funny when he makes an excuse and leaves.
They're taking down the decorations, taking the trash out and cleaning the kitchen when Quinn breaks their comfortable silence. "I don't know if I told you both already, but thank you." She looks at both of them and she has this regal beauty and elegance and it's as hard for her to reach out to anyone as it is for Santana.
Brittany as always, has the social grace and lightness that they lack, so she reaches out and hold Quinn's hand. "Of course we would be here, silly." Brittany smiles adorably. "We had to make sure there's really a mini Quinn in there." She adds, placing her other hand in Quinn's huge belly like she would break anytime.
Santana clears her throat and speaks. "We won't be a Trinity anymore, but a Quartet. It's worth it." She says, and she hopes that will be enough for Quinn to understand all the things she tries to say but always seems to fail. "We wouldn't miss it."
"Come here." Quinn demands, reaching out to Santana. Santana comes closer and takes her hand. This is intense, and awkward, but she says nothing. "I have something to ask the both of you." She pauses and frowns a bit before continuing. "I want the both of you to be this baby's godmothers."
"Wow." Brittany says after some time. "We would love to." She adds, and Santana squeezes their hands. So many people in her life, and so many easier arrangements she could have picked, and still she chose the two of them.
"Thank you." Santana says, and she knows then she's bound to spoil Quinn's kid in every way.
It's a bit late, and they're ready to go to bed. Santana's on the bed, answering a few emails on her iPad. She's also avoiding to look at Brittany. "Santana..." Brittany interrupts their silence. Santana is wearing her silk nightgown and Brittany has just put her pyjamas on. Her long legs are almost teasing with the indecent length of her shorts, but Santana does nothing but to clear her throat and look at Brittany so she could continue. "Why did you do that? You know, pretend I was your..." She stops short, but Santana understands it. "So he would leave me alone?"
Santana runs a hand through her hair, trying to put her thoughts in words. How can she articulate instinct? How can she be honest with Brittany without going too far? "Because you've always been my girl, Britt." She answers looking around the room; her voice is filled with a deep sadness and acceptance. She says nothing else, because Brittany looks at her with something that is probably pity and because she knows her voice will break if she even tries. It feels wrong and Santana feels out of place.
She is fooling herself, all this time. She still feels she is entitled to step up to Brittany, when she isn't. She still feels connected to Brittany, when they aren't. She looks at Brittany and neither of them say anything for the longest of moments. There is nothing left to say. Santana feels small and invisible. It hurts to look at Brittany's apartment and have it thrown in her face that life went on without each other. She hates that place, she hates her own place, she hates to look at Brittany and she hates not to.
Their game of pretending is wearing thin to the point of cynicism, and Santana knows it. They are not friends, they are not acquaintances. She goes to the bathroom and closes the door, in an attempt to breathe.
In any scenario she had ever built, life had never, not been profoundly marked by Brittany. In none of the predictions she might have made, Brittany's absence was a reality. Still, it happened. She remembers once more that lady in Europe who took her palm and told her she had already met the love of her life, with the saddest of eyes, as if she knew Santana had already lost her chance. She looks at herself at the mirror and the realization she has lost her chance, that they both had built a life without each other, breaks her again.
She loved Brittany first, and she also loved her last. She never meant to move on, she never meant to marry someone else and pretend everything was okay. Pretend she never dreamed of Brittany, never had the longing to hear her laughing, and never imagined herself telling Brittany some fantastic news. She never meant for it to end, but they were so young, so foolish, with ambitions that could only tear them apart. She looks at herself in the mirror and she doesn't recognize her image. She cannot take anything back. She cannot take back her life, her choices, her break up.
It came as a surprise how Brittany's could still get under her skin, how she still needed to intertwine their fingers, to hold her close, to talk to her. She expected to feel nothing but a sweet nostalgia over what they once were. She imagined she would keep her mind clear and her decisions, rational. She expected to be over her, because really, there was nothing left. Time heals, or at least it should. But it hurts stills, and Brittany's look is unbearable.
She wants to disappear, to leave that apartment and to leave her own life. Brittany knocks twice before she opens the door. They are standing close, their height difference back to normal now that Santana's barefoot. "You don't have to say anything." She gives Brittany that. She is now aware she took the case just to have something to hang on to as much as she is aware that is nothing holding them together anymore now that it is finished. "I better go to bed." She tries to be a bigger person.
Brittany doesn't let her. "Santana..." it sounds like a soft request for her not to suffer with a remote past. She withholds no expectations, and isn't disappointed. She has had a lovely time with Brittany and it was more than she could ever ask.
This is too heavy. Santana sighs. "Goodnight, Brittany." She memorizes those features once more and begins to walk, not looking back. Her eyes threaten to fill with tears. She holds them back. She reaches to the door, but Brittany's hand holds the lock before she can do anything. Before she can react, however, her face is being cupped and her lips are touching Brittany's and her body is being pressed against Brittany's.
Her lips are soft and her body feels warm in contrast to the cold door behind her that makes her arch her back to avoid the cool sensation. Her first instinct is to reciprocate, because what else would she do when kissed by Brittany if not to kiss back? She relaxes into the kiss, opening her mouth too easily when the blonde's tongue demands entrance, her own arms going to the blonde's neck. Santana moans, because she's so gay, so very much gay, and Brittany is sucking on her tongue and biting her lower lip.
It is everything she is missing.
Brittany's warm, and soft, and she whimpers when Santana pulls at her hair to assault her neck. She takes a sharp intake of breath when Santana places open mouth kisses and sucks, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when Santana breathes warmly just below her ear before she kisses the spot.
Santana's hands are trembling — this can't be happening, not at all, and maybe she fell asleep reading — so she holds on to Brittany a bit tighter. Brittany makes a strangled sound and kisses Santana again, hard and needy, and Santana parts her lips so their tongues can meet, sliding against one another. Brittany presses her body against Santana, but it's still not enough — she needs more, she needs to be closer, she needs to feel Brittany — and when Brittany grabs Santana's thighs and lifts her, Santana sighs in relief and wraps her legs around the other woman's waist.
Brittany breaks their kiss and looks at Santana. Her lips are already sore, and Santana licks her own lips. It struck her, finally — she's kissing Brittany, Brittany is kissing her, God — and she cups Brittany's face.
Brittany's eyes are pooling with tears. Santana kisses her, softly this time, and Brittany lets out a sob. "I missed you so much," she says, voice cracking. "I missed you so much I thought I'd die."
Santana doesn't know what to say — there's a knot in her throat and a weight on her chest and she can't possibly answer. She doesn't know what they're doing, and Brittany's skin tastes like salt, and she stills smells the same — maybe she changed her favorite soap, maybe her shampoo is like a forest now, but her skin; her skin is just the same, and Santana wipes her tears off.
Brittany tilts her head and searches for Santana's lips. She makes it wet, and slow — it sinks in Santana in a way that makes her asks herself if she ever really lived before this moment, before Brittany was entangled to her, chest pounding erratically. Her own heart turns and moves and rearranges inside her ribcage, and things start to make sense again.
Brittany looks at the watch — it's 8am on a glorious Sunday. Santana's sleeping next to her and no noise can be heard around the house. It feels peaceful. Brittany can't possibly sleep anymore. She feels excited, confused, full of promise and boundless energy. She outlines Santana's collarbone, the valley of her breasts, and Santana stirs and wakes up.
She always loved watching Santana wake up: how she'd blink, confused, like she doesn't know where she is; how she'd smile at Brittany and give her body a nice long stretch; how she'd finally roll to her side and tell Brittany "hello, you" and pull her closer.
She can still recall it — and some things don't change.
"Hello back," Brittany answers, running the tip of her fingers on Santana's waist and watching her hold her breath. They kiss; Brittany wouldn't know who started it. She's sleepy and satisfied and this is how things should be — she doesn't want to escape this inevitability.
Santana puts her head on Brittany's chest, her nose touching Brittany's chin. Santana sighs for a long moment before she breaks their silence. "Britt, you do know I am married." Brittany's heart races and she frowns. Santana kisses her jaw and continues, "I still haven't divorced Alexander. I don't know how that's going to be."
Brittany doesn't say anything, because everything sounds stupid in her head. I love you, be with me, I don't want to be with you, I don't care: were those words real? What was left for them to try? Hadn't they tried and failed already?
"Don't look like that, please." Santana's voice sounds small, and she's searching Brittany's face. Brittany kisses her, trying to prove a point she doesn't know which, and it's incredibly satisfying when Santana moans in her mouth and shifts closer. "Baby—" Santana groans, opening her legs for Brittany's hand.
"I'm not letting you go," Brittany mumbles against Santana's hair, fingers running through Santana's folds, feeling the wetness. Santana's hips buck upwards, searching; Brittany runs circles around Santana's center. "I can wait," she tells Santana before she slides two fingers in.
The plane takes off. She can't take her hands off Brittany, and the other way around is also true. She intertwines their fingers and Brittany lifts the airplane's armrest. All Santana can do is stare at Brittany's lips and how they move.
She's hyper aware of her surroundings. Brittany keeps leaning into her, and her shirt has a dangerous cleavage; she whispers things in Santana's ear just to see the path of goosebumps crawling down Santana's arm.
Her head is spinning — she didn't know she could feel that sensation for so long. Brittany tells her something, speaking low into her ear, but Santana immediately forgets what she's saying: the tip of her tongue touches Santana's neck and draws a circle before retreating and talking to the flight attendant like nothing ever happened.
Santana considers, for a brief moment, joining the Mile High Club.
The taxi stops at Brittany's first. Santana wants to see her get home safely — it's night and who knows who could be out there — and she wants to delay her own arrival. Brittany lets her, and when the driver leaves the car to get her luggage in the trunk she takes the opportunity to kiss Santana one last time.
She tastes like candy and Santana can't avoid sucking her lower lip for a second before letting her go.
"Call me," she says, and she leaves.
Santana considers the idea of staying at a hotel. She plays with the wedding ring in her pocket and bites her lip. She doesn't know what to expect. The taxi driver looks at her, waiting for directions. She finally tells him her address — she has to get home and face whatever she has to face.
It is a little before midnight. She takes a breath before opening the front door; there's a light on in the kitchen and she pictures Alexander in his pyjama pants waiting for her with some tea.
She leaves her luggage and enters the kitchen.
Alexander's not there.
"There you are," a tall, blond woman tells her. She's got blue eyes and her face is like a Greek statue, symmetrical and proportional and stone cold. "I was wondering if you'd ever come back."
Santana purses her lips. "Helena," she says as her body goes stiff and rigid and her chin discreetly raises in defiance. "What are you doing in my house? Where's Alexander?"
She stares at Santana for a long moment. The sound of the tea kettle interrupts them; Helena pours some water in two mugs. "He is at my house hiding from everything. He fell asleep putting Agathe to bed, so I took his keys and decided to pay you a visit." She puts the kettle aside and reaches for the tea. "I suppose you wouldn't be against some Earl Grey, would you?"
Santana doesn't answer.
"That's what I thought." Helena answers and puts the tea bags in the mugs. She looks at Santana once more. "I'm here to ask what you think you are doing with my brother, because I'm not prepared to let it slide."