I couldnt resist updating. You reviewers are just so great. But the catch is this might be the last update until mid June. I really need to do my homework, haha.

Spotted: Supermodel Santana Madison getting off the elevator at the Empire State building. The catch? She wasn't alone. With her was the same mystery man she's been seen with a couple times in the last few months. A source, who was on the observation deck the same day as Madison, says "The two of them were being very touchy-feely and kissed a couple of times. I would definitely say they looked like they were dating or more." Another source claims that Santana met her new guy at a party held by The Limited and has been smitten since September! Could America's favorite supermodel finally be taken off the market? Madison's representative couldn't be reached for comment, but catch Santana in the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show live on CBS in two weeks!

He glanced casually at the homepage of that was open on Santana's laptop and shrugged. They had only been mobbed by the paparazzi once on their tourist excursion, which Santana had considered successful. He, however, didn't appreciate being pushed around by a group of guys with fanny packs and bright flashing bulbs. Santana was on her phone in the other room with her publicist, figuring out how she was going to play out their relationship to the public. Whatever, he was going to leave his fifteen minutes of fame to the professionals.

Anyways, he'd promised to call his ma today. He picked up the phone and dialed the Lima number that had belonged to the Puckerman house since 1995.

"Hello?" answered the tired, middle aged woman on the line.

"Hey Ma, it's me," he answered.

"Noah! Baby! Why do you never call me?" she replied, her voice instantly picking up. Her only son calling was the highlight of Allison Puckerman's day. Allison had been put through the wringer as a parent. She'd spent the last ten years never knowing exactly where her son was, or what he was doing, so the fact that her son was voluntarily checking in with her was quite a feat.

"I'm calling you now," he reasoned.

"When are you coming home? You've been out of the service for how long now? And you can't even find the time to visit your own mother? Who the hell do you think raised you?" Allison demanded.

"I know, I know, Ma. Sorry." He felt a little bad for not having visited his ma, but to be honest, he liked the New York routine better than the Lima one. The thought of the Lima one made him want to cringe. Poor Sarah, stuck there. He ,like Santana, felt a little guilty about his lifestyle.

"What are you doing in New York anyways?"

"Nothing special. Just hanging out. Trying to find something to do." He did miss his family. They were kind of the only thing he had.

"So come home! You know, Rhoda Goldberg's daughter just got divorced. She's very pretty, very Jewish, although a little on the short side. When are you going to settle down? I want some grandchildren!"

This was why he never called his mother. Because she never stopped bugging him to do something, never stopped with the questions. She was the quintessential stereotypical Jewish mother.

"Ma, I got a vasectomy, remember?"

"Well, those things don't really work. And you can get it reversed."

He shook his head. There was no use. "No, Ma. I don't need you to help me get women." Really, did his ma think he had no game?

"What? Do you have a girl over there in New York?" Allison's questions kept coming at rapid speed, and she had no intention of stopping.

"Maybe."

"Who is she? Do I know her?"

"What? Why would you know her?" he said quickly, trying to cover the uncertainty in his voice. He really didn't know why his ma asked that, as if she just knew all the single girls in all of New York. But of course, it didn't matter, because Allison was right. She did know Santana. But Puck wasn't really going to tell his mother that he was shacking up with the girl that "ruined his life." And there was no way anyone in Lima even knew about the two of them. No one watched Access Hollywood or anything like that. Well, maybe Kurt Hummel did, but he doubted his ma would know.

"Tell me about her, Noah. Is she a nice girl? Are you going to get married?"

"Whoa, ma. No, no, and no." Yeah, he wasn't going to discuss this with his mother.

"She's not a nice girl or you're not going to marry her?"

"No, I'm not going to talk to you about this. Is Sarah there?" he asked, changing the subject. Maybe he would tell Sarah. If Sarah had nothing going for her, at least she would know that her brother was dating the most eligible bachelorette according to Maxim.

"Fine." He heard some shuffling then his sister's voice.

"Hey dumbass. Mom wants me to ask you about your new girlfriend," Sarah greeted.

"Don't tell her anything. She'll have a heart attack," he commented.

"Why? Is she a stripper? A single mother? A treehugger?"

"Worse."

"Oh, the suspense is killing me. Tell me."

"Fine, but don't tell anyone in Lima. Anyone. Not just Ma." Santana told him once that the people in Lima weren't exactly proud of her, and that once, some church group petitioned to get a billboard of her down, and succeeded. It was safe to say that people there weren't as excited about her job as he was.

"Okay, jeez. You'd think you were dating a celebrity or something."

"It's Santana."

"Who?"

"Santana Lopez—erm, Madison. The Victoria's Secret Angel."

"Like, your high-school-fuck-buddy-who-ditched-Lima-and-now-everyone-hates-her-Santana?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Holy fucking shit. You're dating a supermodel. Well, is it serious?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean she's paying the rent and the utilities and everything."

"So you're mooching off her?" Sarah had a point, he was taking an awful lot from Santana. Was he pulling his weight in this relationship?

"Sure?"

"Well good, I always liked her. I bet she's loaded and knows everyone. If you guys get married and have bunches of babies, you'll have it made."

"I know, squirt."

"I'm glad. So Mom says you're going to come home soon. We haven't seen you in like three years. You owe us that."

"Yeah, well I want to, but I don't know about San." He couldn't imagine going home without her. As much as Santana tried to deny it, she was quintessential Lima. He couldn't think of his life in Lima without thinking of her.

"Soon. I miss you. And her," begged Sarah.

"Sure."

"Okay, I have to go to school. Promise me that when I graduate, I can come live with you guys in the Big Apple?"

"Ummm…." He didn't really want his kid sister around, even though he loved her.

"Thanks, you're the best brother ever! Bye." The line went dead. He put the phone back and went outside to see what Santana was up to. He found her lying on the couch, massaging her temples and eyes closed. She looked stressed.

"What's up?" he asked, sitting down on the floor near her head.

"I just got into a screaming match with my publicist. She wants us to act cutesy and tell the public, so I can 'personable' and 'relatable' for that media tour in a few months."

"And?"

"I told her, hell no. I'm going to the Tyra show to promote some underwear tour, not talk about us."

"Good," he said, and kissed the tip of her nose. She smiled in her tired haze, eyelids tickled.

"How was your phone call with your mother? She still doesn't know?" Santana asked. She'd given up on getting Allison to like her a long time ago. She honestly didn't care anymore if Puck's mom disliked her for being "Catholic" or "loose" or "distracting." Look at where she was now. All that whoring around with her son paid off, thank you very much.

"Nope. But Sarah misses you."

Santana smiled. She'd always liked Sarah. She remembered helping Puck babysit. Taking care of Sarah was like taking care of Brittany, but easier because Sarah was at least, more intelligent than a kangaroo.

Santana slipped into the Puckerman home unannounced, in a way that suggested that she was here all along, and just maybe, this was where she belonged. She found Sarah on the couch, sitting in front of the television, and Puck sitting in the corner flipping through the sheet music for this week's Glee Club assignment. When he noticed her, he looked up, and put his music away.

"Hey babe," he greeted. She threw her stuff on top of the pile of shoes by the doorway.

"Hi," she responded, "Hi Sarah." She threw in that last part to appease the little brat. Last time, she had ratted them out to Allison, who was not happy with the two of them "fooling around while a young child was left alone downstairs."

"Hey sis," Sarah answered. A grimace crossed Santana's face, and Puck struggled to keep the smirk off his face. Sarah was a mini-Puck, already knowing which buttons to push.

"Don't call me that," Santana said calmly. Being Sarah's sister meant being Puck's sister, and that was just gross.

"What should I call you then?" asked Sarah innocently. Well, Santana was here about as much as her own brother was, so it was like she was Sarah's sister.

"Auntie Tana," snickered Puck. This time her stern look was directed at him.

"Don't you dare," she added dryly, jabbing her index finger at him.

"So I guess I'll stick with sis," said Sarah, returning back to the television.

It could be worse. Santana was going to drop it, because she was hot and horny and there was too much talking going on. She started to head up the stairs, with Puck on her trail, when she finally glanced at the television screen that Sarah was so intently focused on.

"Oh my god, what are you watching?" Santana cried. The screen featured an amalgamation of neon monokinis, hot tubs, and overly tanned people making out. Why would anyone subject themselves to such trash? Even she had standards.

"Jersey Shore," answered Sarah monotonously. Santana shot a look of horror at Puck, who shrugged. "She's eight," Santana mouthed at him. Again, he shrugged nonchalantly.

Then, Santana made a snap decision the way she made snap judgments. "Okay, stop and turn that off right now, Sarah," Santana commanded. Puck gave her a look that beckoned "What the fuck are you doing?" He had invited her over so he could go down on her, not listen to her be buddy-buddy with his kid sister. But Santana was already back in the living room, her lithe body blocking the television, her hands on her hips. She looked like she meant business, teacher-like, even. Hot.

"Why?"

"Because apparently I'm your sister now and you have to listen to me," Santana smirked, "Come on, hurry up, your innocence is being tainted with skank. How about I make us a bowl of popcorn and we can Netflix Roman Holiday? I'll show you what real cinematography is, Sarah," Santana offered. She felt it was kind of her duty to make sure Sarah didn't end up a fuck-up like Puck.

Now the amused look on Puck's face turned into annoyance. "Sannnn," he whined. What about their plans? He gestured towards his bedroom. Santana gave him a look of disbelief over her shoulder. Santana had already made up her mind to take Sarah under her wing.

"Really? I'm doing you a favor here, Puckerman. I'm undoing your sister's airwave STDs. But you're welcome to join us," Santana smiled, taking the final word before walking into the kitchen like she owned the place. He, of course, couldn't say no.

Santana smiled at the thought of the memory. After that day, she had Sarah had become fast friends. She revealed to Sarah all her tricks: make-up, pop culture facts, boys. Well, not everything. Puck would kill her if Santana told Sarah everything she knew.

"Well, I miss her too." Wow, she hadn't seen Sarah in at least a decade. She was an adult now, destined to join the ranks of Judy Fabray, Allison Puckerman, and Isabel Lopez—discontent Lima housewives—if she didn't do something about it. But Santana had faith in Sarah. Sarah had moxie, just like her. She'd get out of there.

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you leave without saying goodbye," he noted. His sly dig didn't go uncaught.

"Don't start," she said, rubbing her temples again. She really didn't want to have this conversation again, because someone was going to end up screaming or crying.

He shrugged. She was the one who didn't ever want to talk about anything, and this was no exception.

"Would you ever consider going back to Lima? Like for a visit?" he offered. Her eyes shot open.

"Why would you even ask that? You know the answer." No. No fucking way.

"I don't know. I kind of want to. I mean, I miss my ma and my sister." Didn't she want to visit all the places of their most memorable adolescent times? Granted, they weren't all good memories, but still worth remembering. Didn't she want to see if they finally renovated Breadstix? Or if the coffee at the Lima Bean was still way overpriced? Or if Mr. Schue had finally burned his vest collection? It wasn't perfect, but Lima was still their home.

"Well, I don't. Every single person in that town hates me."

"That's not true." It couldn't be; there were 1000 people in that place.

"Yes, it is. They can't stand that I actually did something with my life, and they can't stand that it was with my clothes off even more so. My dad's won't look me in the eye. My mom thinks she's failed as a parent because there's no way her only child is getting into heaven. My parents have pretty much disowned me, and I think that constitutes as ostracism," she said firmly.

"How could you do this, Santana?" her father yelled, throwing the magazine on the coffee table. The slap the paper made as it hit the cold glass surface only made Santana flinch, but she could see her mother jump ever so slightly from her spot on the couch.

"It's not that big of a deal," Santana urged, her eyes flickering to her mother. Isabel remained silent and stoic, her hands folded in her laps and her eyes pointed down permanently.

"Not that big a deal? Look at this! How can you even look at yourself? For shame, Santana!" her father roared, pointing towards the glossy page. Her model self stood, in a stark white bikini, lying on a faux-sandy beach while shirtless guys played volleyball behind her. For anyone but an avid reader, no one would know the ad was for a travel agency, not scantily clad teenagers.

"I'm wearing clothes!" Santana protested. Her real self was going to fight back, even if her mother wouldn't.

"Barely! We give you everything, and this is how you repay us? We pay for your Cheerios expenses, buy you train tickets to the city, even your silly surgery you begged us you needed! I didn't come from Nicaragua to have a daughter like this!"

"No, you came from Nicaragua to look for a better life, which is exactly what I'm doing," Santana yelled back. Her father was being such a fucking hypocrite. And he didn't have to pay for those things if he didn't want to, so he had no right to use them against her.

"Are you saying your life here is inadequate?" He gave his wife a look of disbelief, as if he could not recognize this girl standing in front of him as his daughter. Isabel didn't return the look of shock, but gave her husband a look of sadness, as if to ask him to stop. It didn't work.

"Look around, daddy! Everyone you know will live and die in this zip code!" cried Santana. There was no way that would be her. She was going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks, and she was going to get the hell out of here. But there was Puck, and Glee Club, and Britt….

Her father didn't respond to her comment. She knew it was because he knew it was true, but in true Lopez manner, he wouldn't admit he was wrong. Instead, he said, "This ends today, Santana. No more" with a tone of formality and finality.

"But daddy, daddy please," she begged. Her own tone went from annoyance and frustration to despair and sadness. Her daddy wouldn't do this to her. No, he was fucking bluffing. She was his little girl, his only child. Like he said, he gave her everything, so why would he stop her from chasing the best?

"Stop it, Santana. You embarrass yourself, and you disgrace me." He stormed out of the living room, probably to pour himself another glass of scotch, which would have made it his fifth one that day.

Santana stayed behind, whimpering. She finally looked up, and gave her mother a dark look. An accusatory one, almost. As if threatening to ask, why didn't you say anything? But of course, Santana already knew why her mother had stayed silent. Isabel Lopez had already accepted defeat in this lifetime. Her daughter? Not so much.

"Do something, mom!" Santana cried. She promised herself she wouldn't cry, but her dreams were slipping away and taking her mascara was being washed away with them. Her mother was her champion. They would survive her father together, if they worked together.

"Hush, Santana. There's no use trying. The father is always right." With that, Isabel got up slowly, and followed her husband out.

"Fine, we won't go then." He knew how hurt she was by her mother's betrayal and her father's abandonment, even if she didn't show it. Santana and Isabel were close in high school, and now just the thought of the word "mother" made her want to scratch someone's eyes out.

"Who said it was ever an option?" she said bitingly.

"What is up with you? Ever since last Tuesday, you've been on edge." He was trying to be nice, trying to be a sensitive and understanding boyfriend. But she obviously couldn't appreciate what she had in front of her.

"It's nothing. I'm stressed out. I'm fine," she snapped, getting up to make herself some tea.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am," she argued. He was not going to win this one.

But he sure as hell was going to try. "No, you're not. Was it because you cried?"

"No." Her lips were firmly puckered.

"Was it because you admitted you hated your job?"

"No. You're never going to fucking get it, so leave me alone." They were both valid guesses, but revealing neither of those things bothered her that much.

"Can you please just tell me what I did?"

"Of course, you don't even know," she accused. This was just like him.

"Well, I don't know because you won't tell me," he sighed exasperatedly. This was just like her.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes," he dragged out.

"Fine. It was the fucking polyester comment," she threw out there, expecting her words to cut him straight through the ribs and into the heart.

"The polyester thing? Like your robe?" he asked, confused. She was mad at him because he asked what her robe was made out of?

"No, you jackass. I thought you were going to tell me you loved me, okay? And then you go off and start talking shit about polyester and rayon and fabric like you actually give a damn!" she yelled.

He stood dumbfounded. "Really?"

"Forget it," she snapped, walking off with her warm mug of tea. She was stupid; she had overestimated him. Never again.

"No, Santana," he called out, grabbing her by the wrist. He felt some of her tea slosh onto his own wrist and the burning liquid scalded his skin, but he didn't care.

"What? What do you want now, Noah?" she cried, turning around and throwing the still full mug at the kitchen in a rage. The cup exploded with a loud crash on the wall, and the tea dripped down her pristine, white wall in messy trickles. "What can you possibly want to tell me?" she said, her chocolate eyes turned amber with hurt. Their little argument was the same as all their other fights. He had called her out on being closed off, and pushed her buttons until she caved and yelled her confession at him as a last rite, hoping her forced admission would guilt him into never harassing her again.

"I polyester you," he said with a grin, completely unfazed.

"What?" she yelled, looking at him as if he were a crazy person. Like that guy who used to sit outside the library back home. Patches. "Don't be ridiculous. You're not cute." She backed away from you.

"Santana Lopez, I polyester you. I polyester polyester polyester you," he sang walking towards her. He looked and sounded so ridiculous that she couldn't help but feel her anger slowly melt away, chunk by chunk.

"Stop it!" she demanded, but she didn't look so convincing since she was trying not to laugh. Then she suddenly understood what he was trying to say. He really did love her.

"Come on, baby. You can't expect me to know that kind of stuff."

"Yeah, I guess." But it didn't mean she didn't expect him to pleasantly surprise her once in a while. She came down from her anger-induced delirium high. Lesson learned. Don't expect too much, because you're just going to get disappointed. So he wasn't going to say it.

"Sit back down, San. I'm not finished." He pulled out a chair by the kitchen and she obliged.

"I love the way you always bug me about whether or not shampoo bottles are recyclable, even though I've told you five million times they are. I love the way you think the 30 calories you save getting nonfat milk in your Starbucks order is worth a drink that tastes like ass. I love the way you claim that you hate everyone in Lima for hating you, when really, you're just scared you love them. So yeah, Santana. I guess do love you."

"Are you finished?" She stared him down. He nodded and awaited her reaction, tossing his hands up in the air.

"Well, I suppose I polyester you too."

Questions to think about (and answer if you wanna make my day!):

1) So Puck seems to miss Lima, and Santana definitely doesn't. If it came down to it, which would he choose, do you think?

2) How does Santana fit into the Puckerman home? There's a line in that Sarah flashback that reveals wonders! See if you can find it! And what's the significance of "sis"? Is it just a name?

*Here's one for the overachievers out there* Go Google what the name Isabel means. What does this reveal about the family structure in the Lopez home and their values? And oh my gosh, poor Isabel Lopez. She's a martyr for her cause, no? If you guys haven't noticed, names are a theme in my stories too.

Anyhoo, things are getting a little too happy plotwise for my taste, so don't get comfortable.

But review! My reviewers know that sometimes when I get a good review, I respond and drop little nuggets of whats to come. So review!

But here's a little teaser: Remember Santana likes Audrey Hepburn.