Hi! Well here's chapter five!
He stared at his brand new cell phone, wondering if he would ever have the courage to call her up. He scolded himself for his cowardliness. Noah Puckerman had been to hell and back, through dozens of intense military operations. He'd risked his life every single day when he was in the service, and now he couldn't even call up his high school "girlfriend." It was pathetic. He was pathetic. He looked around the sad apartment room he'd subletted for the month. The walls were an ugly eggshell color, and he was pretty sure his neighbors were turning their own apartment into a meth lab. Well, it wasn't like there was anything else he could do here. Wasn't Santana the whole point of coming to New York? It wasn't like he had any plans of moving here, or starting a life here. Yet. Or maybe he never would.
He dialed her number and waited patiently for her to pick up. It was only 10am; she certainly couldn't have been too busy at the time.
"Hello?" answered an annoyed voice, belonging to Santana of course.
"Hey, Santana, its's Puck," he started. That was as far as he got.
"Oh, hi! Listen, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm really sorry about how rude I was the other day. I was in a rush, and I'm not used to seeing people I actually somewhat like on the street"
"People you actually like, huh?" he teased. Her apology was a somewhat sincere one (well, as sincere as it would ever have gotten), and he was glad to have it, even though he hadn't really felt insulted in the first place. Any sort of empathy from her was willingly accepted.
"Look, do you want the apology or not?"
"Sure, sure. Wait, where are you? I hear giggling in the background…"
"Oh, I'm at work" She looked over at the corner where Sasha and Coral were gossiping as they were being fitted. Katie sat in the other corner, reading a thumbed copy of Wuthering Heights. She sent Sasha and Coral death glares, and mouthed the words "shut up." Her attempt to quiet her coworkers failed, as Coral noticed the excited look on her face and began conspiring with Sasha immediately about Santana's newfound giddiness.
"Right. Wow, I can't believe you're a celebritard. Imagine that. I bet they have a sign for you out on the highway back home. 'Welcome to Lima, Ohio- home of supermodel Santana Lopez'," he laughed.
"No, actually. No they don't" she said abruptly, and he wondered if he had said something to offend her.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"No, you didn't. Do you want to get coffee or something, to catch up or whatever?" It seemed like the only words she ever said to him were "no" and she wanted to genuinely extend an olive branch. She was never good at making new friends, as evidenced by the fact that she had few friends in New York. She might as well go back to her old friends.
"Sure, how's 1 o'clock today? There's a little café I saw in Central Park the other day that a local recommended to me. Would that work for you? I mean, I don't wanna encroach on your busy schedule"
"That's fine. Yeah, I know the place. See you there."
"Okay, bye."
"Bye." She hung up, and fixed the creeping grin on her face and replaced it with her usual confident look.
"Who was that?" squealed Coral.
"No one you know" was the annoyed reply. She was sick of everyone butting into her business. Perez Hilton couldn't wait to make a remark about her "fake" boobs every chance he got, and she'd found a creepy guy digging through her trash more than once, probably looking to sell some incriminating dirt to Us Weekly. She wanted to keep Puck to herself. He was her little secret.
"Oooh, Santana's got a boyfriend," sung Sasha. What were they, teenagers?
"Please, ladies. You all know I don't do boyfriends."
"What about Ilario? Cause if you don't want him, I'll gladly take him," quipped Coral. Right. Ilario. She had almost forgotten about him, although Santana couldn't possibly do it, even if she tried. The Italian model called her every chance he got, after every random hookup. He wasn't anybody special, just a boytoy. Besides, he lived on the other side of the world; they'd "hung out" only a dozen times. Now that she thought about it, Puck too had once been a random boytoy. But the two were so different she hadn't even thought of the similarity until now, if you could even call it one.
"Of course you would. And you can have him; it's not like I own him," Santana replied. Sasha raised her eyebrow. Ilario wasn't anyone special, but he was enough for Santana to get territorial about. Hell, she would claw out Coral's eyes even if she was dating Hugh Hefner.
"Then who was that?" piped Katie. The girl rarely spoke, and Santana felt like she had to answer her. If she'd replied in her usual snarky self, Santana was sure that the poor newbie would be traumatized forever.
"Just an old friend I'm meeting for lunch. You guys don't know him."
"The reason we don't know him is because we don't know anything about you. Anything 'old' about you at least. You didn't even submit a picture to last year's 'When they were baby angels' feature in the catalogue," remarked Coral, making those silly air quotes with her fingers.
"Whatever." She didn't need to explain herself to anybody. She walked out of the room, and into hair and make-up, hoping she could have her portion of the shoot done as quickly as possible, so she could get the hell out of there.
He sat in the café waiting, nervously drumming his fingers on the countertop. The local was right; the place was nice. Nice enough for a "celebrity" to go to, but still down-to-earth enough for a nobody like him. He glanced at the clock, it was 10 past 1. She'd be here. He was right. He looked up just in the time to see her dashing through the door, her flying hair whipping behind her, struggling to keep up.
"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. You know how photo shoots can be," she blurted, taking a seat across from him. It seemed like all she did these days was apologize.
Actually, he had no idea what photo shoots were like, but he nodded his head and just went with it.
"So how've you been? You're so successful; you must be thrilled," he said.
"Yeah," she muttered.
"You know, I never once doubted you. I know how cheesy that sounds, but I always knew you could do it."
"I know."
"Have you stayed in New York this whole time?"
"Yeah, I fly through Europe a couple of times a year, for some haute couture shows. But mainly I just work here, doing print and ad campaigns for Victoria's Secret. You wouldn't know how tight the contracts are."
"You're right. I don't know." He looked up and found her staring nostalgically at him. He cocked his eyebrow, "Yes? Are you mesmerized by my beauty already?"
"Ha. It's just so weird seeing you without that silly mohawk. You know, I kinda miss it…why did you shave it? I didn't think you ever would have." It was almost embarrassing for her to admit it.
"Well, they don't let you have a mohawk in the army. Just crew cuts," he said sheepishly, running his hand over the shaved topography of his head.
"What? You were in the army?" The look on her face was a mix of shock and concern.
"Yeah, for the last couple of years. I actually just got back."
"Oh my gosh, your mother must have been worried sick. Knowing you, I'm surprised you came back in one piece. I know I would have been," she said. Realizing what she had just said she quickly added, "I mean, if I were her."
He chuckled. "You haven't seen me in five years and all you think about it my ma? It wasn't so bad, you get used to it after a while. Yeah, well, it wasn't like there was anything for me in Lima." She averted her gaze.
"Well thank you for your service. Why did you leave?"
"Long story." He picked up on her curious look, but ignored it. He'd save that one for another day. How would that sound: Oh hey, by the way, I got kicked out of the military because of you.
"How long are you in New York? Do you like live here now?" It came out sounding meaner than she intended.
"What, sick of me already? I actually don't know. Just trying to go with the flow. I have an apartment I've subletted for a month, out in Greenwich Village."
"I, for one, am glad you came to New York. You'll fit right in with all the jackasses here," she joked. This was good. They were being civil. Hell, they were cracking jokes.
"Thanks San."
"So, why New York? Did you just randomly pick a city in the US?"
"I came for you."
They were no longer joking.
He stared at her, full-fledged, and waited for her next move. She suddenly felt suffocated. She didn't know if it was the beautiful boy (who was now a man) looking at her, as if he expected something, or the fact that the stupid barista had no idea how to steam a mocha without fogging up the entire café. But the whole scenario was just too surreal, too close for comfort. She had to get out. She got up and excused herself to the ladies' room.
He didn't know why she had called him here. She was never the one to initiate their "hang-out sessions." So this had come as a surprise. Here they were, on a date (gasp!) at Breadstix, sitting across from each other in a sticky booth.
"So why are we here? Other than to abuse the Breadstix Tuesday special?" he asked.
She had been fidgeting the entire night, and she barely touched her drink. She'd only had maybe 3 breadsticks, which was a dead giveaway to him that something was indeed wrong. She'd been weird for the last two weeks, distant. Santana had always been detached, but this was even more uncharacteristic.
"I have something to tell you, and you need to promise to not get mad."
"Why would I get mad? Are you pregnant or something?"
She flinched. "No."
"Then what is it?"
"There's this job. In New York. For Teen Vogue. It's this weekly modeling blog job thing. I don't know. But it's legit."
"So?" His mouth was full of spaghetti, but the way that she spoke, in fragments, indicated she was dead serious. Something was about to go down.
"They want me. Me. Out of thousands of girl, they want me," she said, almost squealing.
"Wow! Well, congrats, I guess. If it's that big of a deal. Why would I get mad?"
"I'm going to take the job. But it's for three months. Starting next week."
"Three months? But…what about school?" It was a stupid excuse, but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. How could she just abandon him like that?
"I'll just graduate after I make up all my classes in the summer. Don't worry, my diploma will still be there when I get back."
"What about Glee Club? We need you if we're going to make it to nationals! You're just going to leave?" His voice was quickly rising and he'd attracted the attention of the couple in the next booth.
She looked up at him with forlorn eyes. "You guys don't need me. You'll do great. Look, I need to do this for myself. Please understand."
"I do, it's just…I'll miss you," he admitted. Her eyes softened and she brought her hand to his cheek.
"I'll be back before you know it. Promise."
She came back from the restroom, looking slightly more flustered than before. She chose to ignore his comment from before, and he let it slide. Wasn't it a bit too early to get into all that sentimental declaration crap? Couldn't they just civil a little longer, act like normal reunited high school classmates? They could sweep their history under the rug, but for how long?
"I hope you don't mind, but I ordered," he said, breaking the silence.
"Oh yeah, as long as it's not too heavy or anything." Their waiter came over, with a steaming mug in his hand.
"Yes?" she asked. She was used to being interrupted all the time: fans asking for autographs, journalists asking how she felt about the new La Perla/Victoria's Secret collaboration, etc. But weirdly enough, she felt slightly miffed this time.
"The man in the corner would like to send you this drink, miss," said the waiter, gesturing to the dark corner. Santana looked in that direction, this too was not a surprise. An average, slightly geeky looking man sat alone at one of the tables, holding the New York Times. He tipped his hat towards her. Santana turned her attention back towards the waiter.
"You can tell him that is awfully generous, but no thank you. I am here with someone else, and that would be very rude to my friend here, no? Please, I'm way out of his league" she said, throwing in that last comment with a wink. The waiter simply nodded, surprised at her refusal. Puck let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and felt a random surge of pride.
"I guess that happens to you a lot, huh?" She shrugged. The waiter soon came back with two whopping slices of chocolate cake. The calorie count on the frosting alone would have been the equivalent of a whole day's worth of food for Santana. Her eyes widened, and she started hysterically laughing.
"What?" he asked.
"Did you forget I'm a model? There's no way I can eat that. That's like…enough to feed a third-world country," she protested.
"Actually, I've been to a third-world country, so I hate to break it to you, but you're wrong." She couldn't argue with him if he pulled the soldier card on her. He waved to the waiter, who took away one of the plates. "We'll share."
"No, I mean. I can't eat that. It's way too fatty. And I can't gain that much weight, it's in my contract."
"Come on, Santana. You used to love this stuff. You know you want to, when was the last time you had dessert?" He waited. She didn't reply.
"I don't remember."
"Really? That's just tragic. Dig in." he said cheerfully.
"No, no, no. I don't think you understand. I don't think there's actually any way for me to eat that piece of cake without me feeling so bad about myself afterwards that I would run to the bathroom and puke my guts out," she said, her voice revealing a slight distress. She started to shake a little bit, and he could definitely tell that something was wrong. She didn't know why she was revealing so much about herself to him (she was feeling that a lot lately), but it was like the second she stepped into this stupid café, all the walls she'd built up for her own protection, brick by brick, had blown away into the wind.
Her first ever launch party. Wow. The moment was so surreal. There was a fondue fountain! Endless bottles of champagne! And the flatbread they had here rivaled the breadsticks back home. She excused herself, and went to the restroom.
When she went to check her makeup in the mirror, she heard retching sounds coming from one of the bathroom stalls. Then hurling, then flushing. She teetered over, and examined the feet under the door. There was no doubt that it was Coral, her black stilettos revealing a perfect coral pedicure.
"Coral? Are you okay?" she asked. Coral came out of the stall, wiping her mouth with the back of your hand and popping in an Altoid. "Are you sick? Maybe you should go home…" It had sounded pretty bad in there, and it certainly smelled terrible.
"I'm fine, and I'm not sick."
"Oh my gosh, don't tell me you're pregnant!" she exclaimed. She was so over the pregnant chick thing. To Santana's chagrin, Coral let out of a rippling, almost belittling laugh.
"You're funny, Santana. I'm not pregnant. Not all of us can afford to stuff ourselves the way you do," she remarked with a sneer and walked out the door.
It was that moment that made Santana became self-conscious of her body. She'd always known that she was hot, and assumed the modeling pressure of being stick-skinny would eventually catch up with her. But she supposed she thought was special, sort of exempt from that. Guess not.
Three months later, when she was just eating turkey slices and drinking orange juice every day, she wished Coral had just been pregnant.
"Hey, hey. It's okay. You don't have to eat it," he said. He didn't want to step on her toes, especially since they'd just started to get to know each other again, and he didn't want to see her so distraught either.
"No, I do. It would be good for me. I want to. I just don't know if I can," she whimpered. She'd gotten over her short-lived anorexia years ago, but she'd never fully recovered.
"Okay, let's try something. Just watch me. When I take a bite, you take one. We can mirror each other, okay?"
"Okay," she said, slowly picking up her fork. He smiled and stabbed his fork into the cake, taking a bite.
"Your turn."
She took a piece of cake and slowly put it in her mouth. She chewed it, savoring the taste before trying to shove it down her throat. She choked a little bit, but it needed to go down. It had to. Success.
"Good job," he said, before taking another bite. She followed suit.
And they sat like that in the café for the next hour, the two of them sharing a piece of chocolate cake, bite by bite. It might have taken them forever, and the people walking by surely thought they were lunatics, but it was worth it. Because when they were finished, she only had two words for him.
"Thank you."
So a reviewer said that she liked the "new Santana." When I asked her how she interpreted the new Santana, I got this wonderful answer that really helped me write her character better. I cant convey the character I want to unless I know what you guys are getting on your end of the stick (if that made any sense at all). So thats when I was inspired to write these little "book club" questions, to make sure you guys are getting the most out of my story.
1) Most celebrities say that they're "living their dream job." Does this apply to Santana? What is the significance of the word "work"? That is, why does she always refer to her job as "work"?
2) Why do I always refer to Santana's coworkers as "girls" even though they are well into their twenties?
What do you think? Let me know!