Hey, here's Chapter 12. Sorry it took a while. But I'm on break now so I'll probably be writing more. Also, thank you so much for the amazing reviews, I saw a lot of new ones from readers I hadn't heard from before- Yay! I wish I could reply to ones without a link!
Fi: Yes, it's been hard trying to keep their characteristics in there, while trying to write this totally abstract story. But I think ten years later gives me enough leeway to be able to change a couple of things about themselves. Puck and Santana have grown up a little bit, but are still themselves. And yes, I hate pregnancy plots too, but I think I'm going to be able to pull this off. No, its not going to be crazy like that. Also, who said Santana got an abortion? I dont think I ever revealed any details about that. Then again, who said she didnt? Hehe. And wow! Turkey! We're learning about that in school this week. Awesome! Thanks for the review!
"Hey, you've reached Brittany. Actually, no you haven't. Why do people say that? Anyways, leave a message…"
"Hey Britt, it's me. I know I haven't called you in forever and I'm really sorry and I've been meaning to, I swear and I hope you're not dying in a ditch somewhere but I know Artie would never let that happen and God, I'm rambling. I've just had a really really bad week, okay? It's like my entire life is a big 'Fuck You' from God. And I-I-I just don't even know what the hell I'm doing anymore—" Santana cried. Nothing was turning out right. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to put down your phone. The plane is about to take flight," the stewardess interrupted, placing a gentle hand on Santana's toned forearm.
"And now the stupid stewardess is telling me to turn off my damn phone, and she just called me ma'am, so can you just call me? Please? I just really want someone to talk to. I miss y—"
"…BEEEEEEP. Now begin recording your message," replied the automatic robot on the other line. Of course. Leave it to Brittany to have a dysfunctional answering machine. This would happen to her, of all people. Muster up the courage to call your ex-best friend/almost-girlfriend after practically a decade and your message is a lost cause. Yet again, another letdown in her disenchanted life.
She set down the phone and buried her head into her cool hands, massaging her temples with her fingers. Somehow she knew that nothing right now could bring her out of her current hostile yet disillusioned state, not even the girl that used to mean so much to her.
"Hey Britts!" she yelled from down the hall. The other kids looked up, but when they saw it was just Santana being her loud, demanding self, they continued with their own mundane lives.
"Oh, hi Santana," Brittany answered, walking up to her other, smarter half.
"So, wanna come over for a Real Housewives marathon tonight? I'll even let you pick the city?" Santana offered. That was as sincere as her olive branch could get. She was going to maintain a somewhat normal relationship with Brittany while Brittany was off in her good-girlfriend, cripple-loving phase.
"Are you on a boyfast again?" Brittany answered.
"Yes. I've had it with boys and their stupidity. None of them can even touch my level. So Housewives tonight?" Santana asked. Puck had promised to come with her to a gosee in Cincinnati this weekend. He was even excited about it. "Hot babes in the city? I'm down," he had proclaimed. But of course, he bailed on her at last minute to hang out with Lauren at the fucking senior center, volunteering for Square Dancing night or something of the sort.
"Gee, Santana. I wish I could, but I told Artie I was going to go bowling with him," Brittany said ruefully. Really? Santana's offer was a genuine one, and Brittany could've either taken it or left it. Brittany just most definitely left it. And for what? A tacky "date" with her paraplegic boyfriend, eating bad nachos and wearing those disgusting rental shoes? It was obvious where Brittany's alliances laid, and Santana was nowhere near the top. With friends like that, Santana was sure to be the luckiest girl in the world, as Ellie Gloucester declared in Homeroom that morning after Mr. Horn had asked what she had done that weekend and Santana replied with a story about her gosee.
"Bowling?" Santana scrunched her nose, "Is that even safe? What if he rolls down the lane and spins out?" Santana was so not going to let Brittany see how upset she was, even if the blonde wouldn't have been able to tell.
"What does that even mean!" Brittany asked, completely oblivious to Santana's dig at her boyfriend.
"Forget it."
He paced the floor of their apartment, well her's, actually, but whatever. Why the fuck did he say that? Or rather, why the fuck was he thinking that? He basically called her a slut. God damn it, he always fucked himself over every time he had something good going for him.
Also, where the fuck was she? Surprisingly, he'd had the brains to figure out that she didn't want him in her apartment while she was there. So, he hadn't gone back since that day, and had instead checked into a hotel. But he was getting a little antsy. He knew she needed time to cool off (because Lord knows she would bite his head off if he approached her then), but three days must be enough. She wasn't at work. He'd stopped by the studio yesterday, and a visibly annoyed assistant with a Bluetooth, walkie-talkie, and headset promptly denied him entrance.
Still, the apartment looked a mess like she hadn't lived in it for a short bit. The turkey sandwich he had made that day was still sitting on the kitchen counter, half eaten. And her clothes were strewn across the hallway still.
He hoped she was okay.
He really hoped she wasn't at some other undeserving douchebag's house. (Because if any jerk was going to have her, it was going to be him)
He had to talk to her. He'd called her dozens of times and left even more messages, but it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out that she was screening his calls (with good reason).
"Santana. Come on, baby. It's been a week, and I'm deprived. Please?"
Beep.
"Santana, Jesus Christ. I said I'm sorry, what more do you want?"
Beep.
"It's me, again. Look, I get that you're mad, but I don't see why. It wasn't like I planned for her to get pregnant. Besides, we weren't official, so I didn't even cheat on you. So now will you call me?"
Beep.
"Last chance, Lopez. I'll bring the party to you, senorita. So call me, okay?"
Beep.
He'd been trying for the last couple of hours to call her, leaving messages here and there that were more pathetic and whiny than genuinely apologetic. What could he do? She was pissed, and now she wasn't talking to him. That was all there was to it.
His phone vibrated from across the room. He sprinted up to grab it, rising up from his bed, where he had been mindlessly tossing a basketball in the air while lying down. A new text message—from her. He pushed the green button on his phone and read the only two words she'd "said" to him all week.
"Fuck you."
Well, despite the irony in her choice of words, it was safe to say he wasn't getting laid anytime soon.
Santana Madison actually hated industry parties. Really. Even if she was the center of attention there, which she usually was. The flashing lights were too bright and giving her a headache, and the fatty appetizers were full of unnecessary carbs. The trashy Euro pop blasting through the entire building didn't settle her queasy condition either.
Why did she fly halfway across the world to mingle with people she didn't even like?
Because the first guy she really really liked (maybe even loved) called her a slut/thief/fake/etc.
Oh, that's right.
She circulated the posh lounge with expert grace, and declined a champagne flute from a waiter passing by. She smiled and made small talk with Margherita Missoni, who was begging her to be the face of the Fall line for next year.
"Think about it, Santana. Let's be honest here. You're not exactly a fresh face, and who knows if you're going to get another of these opportunities once your Victoria's Secret contract runs out?" urged Margherita. Excuse her? Santana was only 28. For normal career standards, she was young and incredibly blessed to be so successful already. But for a model? She was practically retired.
"Well," Santana started, but before she could finish her sentence, Margherita interrupted her.
"Oh, here comes your gorgeous boyfriend. I'm sure he misses you; he's been moping at every casting call in this country. You're so lucky!" Margherita gushed before walking away. Boyfriend? What boyfriend? When Santana looked up and saw who was approaching her, she turned around quickly and made a beeline for the bar with the intensity of a bargain shopper at Walmart.
Shit. Too late. He had seen her and was coming this way. She really didn't want to deal with him right now. She was hoping that maybe by the end of the party, she would find him for a little late-night lust, but it was far too early now.
"Santana, carina! Long time, no see! Did you get my packages?" Ilario cried.
Santana smiled with one of those fake grins she used to feed to Lauren Zizes and all those other hos she had to pretend to like for his sake in high school.
"I've been very busy, Ilario. You know how that is, no?" she asked sweetly. She decided the best way to get him to stop chatting her up was to charm him with compliments until his own ego swelled to the point where he no longer needed her there to listen to himself talk. Now, her relationship with Ilario was a rather peculiar one. She appreciated his company, when his company came in the form of getting naked in a penthouse suite at midnight when they'd both had too much to drink. But when he opened his loud, narcissistic mouth? Not so much. She could only handle one self-indulged bastard in her life at a time, and the one she wanted was halfway around the world as of now.
"Of course," Ilario purred, stroking her arm. His cold touch triggered a realization from her core. She didn't need to listen to him talk, when what they both wanted from each other had nothing to do with words. She reached up and grabbed the nape of his neck and jerked him closer abruptly. Yup, that got his attention. He stopped talking and kissed her. He tasted like European cigarettes and scotch. In other words, he didn't taste like that terrible "chocolate"-flavored Muscle Milk and cinnamon gum. In fewer words, he tasted wrong. In even simpler terms, he didn't taste like Puck. Still, maybe that was a good thing.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed and shook her from her alcohol, hurt, and exhaustion induced haze. She quickly glanced at the screen, not bothering to excuse her rude behavior, and saw that it was the other guy she really didn't want to deal with right now. But what choice did she have? She knew she shouldn't have even looked at the identification screen. The second she saw it was him calling, she knew wouldn't be able to resist picking up. She'd let herself go a little bit, thinking she had more self-control. But she obviously didn't, which was why she'd turned her phone off the last two days and dropped off the face of the electronic planet.
"I have to take this," Santana said apologetically, before running out to the balcony, where the chilly evening air bit at her skin through her silky romper.
"What?" she hissed into the phone.
"Hello? Santana?" Puck exclaimed, surprised that he had even gotten through.
"Who else would it be? Lady fucking Gaga?" she deadpanned.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Milan," she replied matter-of-factly, as if jetting off to a whole other continent on a day's notice was a thing most people did.
"You left the country?" he yelped. Really? Who did that?
"Yes, Giorgio Armani invited me. Why? You thought your little comment was going to put me into a deep spiraling depression and make me hole myself up in an insane asylum? Well, guess what? Life goes on, especially mine. I have more important things to do. Now what the hell do you want?" She was stronger than that, at least she tried to be. She sure as hell wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had broken her, although he had fractured her at the least.
"Santana. I am so so so sorry about that. Please let me explain. You know I didn't mean it, honest. Can I just say-"
"No, you can't," she snapped, her voice cracking a bit. She disguised it as a cough, but he knew her better. Just hearing his voice was enough for her to flashback to the day when he'd called her a slut. She felt herself slowly melting because of his smooth voice, and she had to grip the metal railing to compose herself before she fell into his stupid trap. Remember, Santana. He was a douche to you. He has no right to apologize. She cleared her throat (for real this time), and pushed back the tears that were threatening to burst out.
"Well then, can I say I miss you? How about that, Santana? Can I say that I feel like shit about what I said, and I really miss you? Can I say that I care about you, and I'm never going to forgive myself if you don't ever see me again and let me explain? Come home soon, San. Please. Come home," he begged. His slightly-selfish request was almost a taunt.
She wasn't going to forgive him just yet. But his declaration was so genuine that she knew it was a once-in-a-million kind of thing. Who knew when she was ever going to get that kind of proclamation from a guy again, if ever? So she listened, against her better judgment. And then she thought about it for a little bit. And she came to the understanding that she was a bigger person than the petulant child she had been acting like recently.
"Okay," she said softly. She heard a sigh of relief on the other line. What possessed her to agree to that? It wasn't that this was the first time ever that he had ever said that he cared about her that much directly. It wasn't his amazingly soothing and convincing voice. It was the fact that he said "home." Like there was something to come back to. Like there would be something waiting for her. Home, as if they lived in a stupid fairy tale house with a white picket fence and a golden retriever in the front yard. She hung up the phone abruptly before she could let herself go anymore and took in another breath of the crisp Italian air, before bracing herself for the conversation inside.
"There you are, Santana. Why don't we slip out for a bit? My apartment is only a couple blocks from here," Ilario suggested as she returned. Real subtle there.
"No, I don't think so," she asserted.
"Why? I'm so lonely without you, baby. Where have you been? Ilario has missed you," her enunciated, leaning back on the bar counter to show off his modelesque physique. Santana rolled her eyes. She didn't really know why she was ever attracted to this guy. He was a complete cocky bastard. Actually, that seemed to be her type these days. Still, one Puck was enough for her.
"Long story," she said. She didn't really want to explain the whole reunited-lover thing to her estranged one.
"I've got time."
"Yeah, well, I don't." She promptly grabbed her clutch from the counter and wandered off. Like she said, she had more important things to do—such as booking the next flight out to New York City.
Sorry this chapter wasnt very exciting, but I needed it to progress the story.
A question to think about. If you answered it in a review, I'd be delighted! But think about the question, cause its really helpful for understanding the story on multiple levels!
1) The underlying topic of this chapter was time. Santana doesn't have it (career-wise, personal-wise, etc.), and it's almost as if she wastes her time. She's getting older, and Puck's already confessed he's going through a quarterlife crisis. Could Santana be too? Is she happy with her life? Or at least happy enough to keep doing what she's doing?
More Brittana and Pucktana to come, so stay intrigued. Hehe.
REVIEW, PLEASE!