Santana was late. And she knew better than that. She was a professional. One of the girls she used to work with in Milan was once 3 hours late to a show, and Diane von Furstenberg threw her out on her hungover ass.

It's just that her alarm didn't go off (an amateur mistake she wouldn't forgive herself for), then she had to straighten her hair because the casting director called for pin-straight hair. The whole thing was just…stressful. Thank god she wasn't with Victoria's Secret today; Daniel would have slaughtered her, stuffed her body in a couch, then said that she went off to rehab on some tropical island. It was just another average modeling call for Lucky Jeans. She guessed she had a leg up on some of the other models being a national modeling icon and all, but still, being late was very very bad.

She'd blown it. She just knew it. She was soaking wet, the ink from the wet subway map in her hand bleeding onto her white T-shirt. The best part? She was in the middle of SoHo with no idea how to get to her gosee. Even if she'd hailed a taxi (a very expensive idea), she would be at least an hour late. And by that time, the skinny Ukrainian bitch she'd seen at the recent shoots would've already got the job.

Still, Santana Madison didn't give up. She was going to get there, she was going to wow the agent, and she was going to book the job. Better late than never, right? Uhm…

"Excuse me? Hi, can you help me? I'm trying to get here. Do you know how?" she said to the next hipster she found on the street, jabbing the circled address on her map multiple times.

"Sure, sure. You're only like ten blocks away. Just keep walking this way, it's just past the statue. You'll be there in like 15 minutes, although I don't know if your feet will survive…" he commented, gesturing to the 3-inch platforms she wore already digging into her ankles.

"I'll live," she said, before walking off. It was only three blocks after that she realized she'd forgotten to thank him. By the time she arrived, the fluorescently lit room was practically empty, just a few girls left in the lobby. Santana took a seat on the couch, clutching her skinny portfolio with a death grip. She looked around for familiar faces and saw the Ukrainian model she'd encountered several times before. Santana peeked at the modeling card the model held in her hand. So the name was Tatiana. She'd remember that.

"They already called your name. Looks like you're through, honey," she said, tossing her hair.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure they can squeeze me in," Santana asserted. They both knew that was a lie though. Rule #1 in modeling? Don't be late. Who was she to assume she was important enough for Calvin Klein's people to just "squeeze in"? They were both busy people.

Tatiana was called, and she went in. Santana sat alone in the lobby, heart restless. She needed this job. She was down to only $600 in her bank account. And with this lifestyle she was forced to keep up for her job? She'd be evicted in no time, or worse, forced to go back home. It didn't matter that she was 19 now. She still had no idea how to take care of herself. Minutes passed, and Santana became even more nervous. Tatiana must have gotten the job; she must be already talking contracts with the director. Why else would a simple casting call take so long? All you had to do was go in, show your portfolio, walk a couple of times, and leave a modeling card.

Then Tatiana walked out, a smug look on her face. She shot Santana a pitiful glare and walked out. The casting director, a sleazy looking man with a mustache that reminded Santana of Tom Selleck came out.

"Yes?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Hi, I'm Santana Madison. I'm so sorry I'm late, but could you please please please just let me walk. I have my portfolio and everything. I'm so sorry-"

"I know who you are. I saw your DKNY ad. Very impressive, but can you walk?"

"Yes, I can. Please, let me show you. I need this job," she begged. Two years ago, she would have rather lived as a small town lowlife than beg for a job. She hated how desperate and pathetic she sounded, but she really had no choice.

"All right, but just this once, Miss Madison. You know we take our models very seriously at Calvin Klein. If I didn't know you could photograph well, you wouldn't even be talking to me right now," he said, opening the door, gesturing for her follow him inside. She scrambled, her hairbrush falling out of her bag. She left it on the floor.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Johnson"

"Please, call me Charlie"

"Well, okay…Charlie"

She set her bag down on the chair by the door inside the room, and got ready to hand him her portfolio. He stopped her.

"Please, I don't need to see that. Just walk, baby." She thought it was a little strange for a casting director for a major label would just dismiss something as important as a portfolio, but she ignored her ambivalent thoughts. Anyways, she complied and walked from the front table to the back a couple of times. He stopped her abruptly.

"Stop. I've seen enough"

"Enough?"

"Look, Santana. No doubt you're a very talented model, but at Calvin Klein we need a little extra. We need more than a pretty face and strong walk…do you know what we need?"

"No, but I promise I can give it to you," she asserted. What more did you need to be a good model? You could be a temperamental, high maintenance bitch and get away with anything if you were good enough. She would learn that soon enough.

"Come sit down, baby" He patted the seat next to him on his plush couch. She complied.

"We need our girls to have fire, we need oomph. Do you catch my drift?" Santana was confused, she shook her head. Charlie put his hand on her thigh.

"How about now?" he asked. Santana was frozen. He moved his large, sweaty palm higher up.

"So what do you say? You wanna be one of Charlie's Angels?" he said greasily. She knew about this happening. She'd heard about it in the movies; she'd even overheard a couple of the girls at the DKNY shoot she did talk about it. But she never thought it would happen to her. She'd always thought sheer talent and charisma would get her the job. It would make her a star, she didn't need to whore herself out like everyone else. She needed to be a model, she needed to succeed. But at what cost? Most girls would have either burst into tears and ran out or got on their backs. Not Santana.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Johnson. No job of yours can buy this," she snipped and walked out the door with more confidence than she had come in with.

Obviously, she didn't book the job. She hadn't expected it to be like this, her first year of modeling in New York City. She had exactly four jobs total this year. Things needed to change.

She dashed out of the lobby of her apartment building, not bothering to say goodbye to her favorite doorman, Fabio. She grabbed onto her steaming thermos of coffee with one hand, as if it were a life raft in a sea of early modeling call times. She was applying mascara with the other hand, while walking down the sidewalk (an acquired, but mastered skill, of course). In fact, she didn't even notice when she crashed into an unlikely wanderer.

He did though. Puck looked down at the petite girl he'd just ran into. It was six in the morning, and he'd decided to set out on his New York journey, looking for something to do in this damn city. He'd expected to meet a couple of panhandlers in the subway, maybe get crapped on by a pigeon, but certainly not this. Especially not at seven in the morning. When he saw who he'd run into, he almost didn't believe his luck.

"Santana!" he exclaimed. He was so unprepared to meet her. It wasn't supposed to be like this. What was he going to say to her? Uhm hi, it's your long lost high school more-than-friend? Remember me? Actually, that didn't sound too bad…

"Huh?" she said groggily before realizing that her body had just come into contact with another human being, no less. "Oh my god, I am so sorry! But really, you gotta watch where you're going!" she snapped.

"Santana," he repeated. Now he was sure it was her. Even though she was just wearing jeans and a T-shirt with sky-high stilettos, she had a foreign glamour about her that he barely recognized. She had walked with an A-list aura, owning the sidewalk she trotted on. She made every girl on the street want to be her. She was a pro at that, he admitted.

"Look, I'd be glad to give you an autograph, but I'm really late. I have to go," she said as she tried to push past him.

"Santana. It's me!" he exclaimed. Really? That finally caught her attention and she looked up at the handsome face that went with the brawny body she'd slammed into. His face was familiar, and she froze as a defense tactic. She couldn't place a name on this man that she knew she'd more than known at one point in her life. What she did know was that this "stranger" was kept safe in a part of her mind that she'd shoved to the back. But now she had to go back and get him from the place in her heart she reserved for her old life. Memories she'd guarded so tightly that she'd almost forgotten about them. Then finally, it came to her.

"Puck?" she squeaked.

"Yeah, it's me. I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me," he said. She knew who he was. He looked different too. His eyes had a deliberate hardness in them, proof that war had changed him forever.

"I remember," she said quietly. She didn't know what to think; she's ill-equipped for this. She thought she'd left all traces of her former self behind. But she'd be lying if she hadn't spent hours lying in bed awake, thinking up ways to give everyone in Lima, Ohio a big fat, Fuck you. Look at me, I made it. None of you believed in me, but I did it anyways.

Now on the day of all days, she had nothing to say to him. At least nothing she could think of in that moment. He couldn't say anything either. He was mesmerized. An unsettling silence filled the air between them. They both had places to me, but neither left.

"So…" he started.

"Yeah. Wow. It's you, how long have you been in New York? What a surprise," she said in a manner that lead him to believe that it wasn't one of those pleasant surprises.

"Just a couple of days, I've been chilling," he said. He wasn't ready to tell her about his pathetic life yet.

"Well, you know I'd love to chat but I'm really late for a job. Here's my number, call me. We could get coffee or something," she rambled, writing her number on her napkin, hoping he wouldn't sell it to TMZ. She struggled with all the stuff she was carrying.

"Sure, sure," he said as he steadied the toppling girl.

She shoved the napkin in his hand, noticing how rough it was. She flashed him a million dollar smile that undoubtedly had a commercialized, artificial aura about it, and dashed into the street to hail a cab, stilettos in hand.

"Bye!" she yelled, getting into the yellow taxi. He grinned and raised his hand in a goodbye gesture. In the cab, she chided herself for being so rude to him, a result of being so scared of revisiting old ghosts. She was sure he must have thought she was an egotistical, bratty bitch. Well, what else was new? The rest of the day, she couldn't concentrate. The casting director told her that she looked distracted, like she was searching for something lost. So she didn't get the job. It would have been a slap in the face if it wasn't for the circumstances of that eventful day.

He stayed standing there on the sidewalk for a good three minutes after she rode away. Again, he didn't know what to expect when he arrived in New York, but he was one lucky son of a bitch. She'd practically dropped out of the sky, and fell right in front of him. Thanks, God. He took another look at the napkin in his palm; he'd need to get himself a cell phone. She'd written in out in her memorable girly scrawl. He looked up and found a pimply faced teenager enviously gawking at him.

"Dude. Santana fucking Madison just gave you her number," the boy said, staring at him in awe.

Yes. Yes she did.

About the "reunion," yeah, it was uneventful, but thats how I imagined it. Meet your ex like 5 years later on a sidewalk? Awkward. Sorry if you're disappointed and wanted a kiss and make up reunion, but they have a whole story left to reconnect! No worries.

Tell me what you think, PLEASEEEEEE. Dont be afraid to call me out about bad writing and give suggestions, I live for that stuff.