I won't blame you if you hate me for making you wait so long. I apologize, my dears. This update was made possible by Mountain Dew and Skittles.
Brittany lowers her cards and consults her sheet one more time. "Miss Scarlet in the lounge with the revolver," she declares.
It's raining. It's been raining for days. Sam can feel how antsy both Brittany and Santana are. Santana ran out of cigars nearly a week ago and while she doesn't smoke them often, Sam's come to learn that she's at least comforted by their presence. And her dealer is nowhere to be found. Brittany, for her part, just won her third consecutive game of Clue – this time in less than five turns. Now she's lazily picking at the expensive sofa. There's a Sharpie within an arm's length and Sam wonders if she draws penises on furniture as often she draws them on his skin. The last one took some serious scrubbing to remove and it's super embarrassing having to explain to his mom why he comes back to the motel with genitalia scribbled all over his body almost every day. Santana, always Brittany's number one fan, encourages her best friend's artistic side. Sam's still not convinced Brittany will be the next Michelangelo. The next Picasso, maybe.
"There's been a mix up," Santana says as she settles down on the couch next to Brittany. She was on the phone for several minutes, swearing in her limited Spanish. Sam suspects that she may have also texted Brittany all of her clues.
"What, did you and Brittany switch concealers by mistake and now her face looks too tan and yours too pasty?" Sam jokes.
"Oh my God, that was one time! Also, not what I was referring to. My cigar guy had some spat with his roommate and now he can't borrow the car."
Sam looks up at her. "And you're telling me this because…?"
"You're taking me."
Huh. She's still demanding to be taken places instead of asking. But Sam couldn't teach this old dog a new trick if his life depended on it. Which, in all honesty, it might. He remembers how she lunged at him with a knife when she mistook him for her mother.
"Where exactly are we meeting this dude?" Sam asks.
"At his place," she replies cryptically. No duh – he'd already figured out that one on his own.
"Where might that be?" he questions. Hopefully it's no farther than just across town. There's a Lord of the Rings marathon starting in an hour or so.
"Fort Wayne."
Fort Wayne… why does that sound so familiar? Then something clicks. Fort Wayne. That's where Aural Intensity's from. That's… in Indiana. Suddenly he's not so sure he wants to go and Santana clearly anticipates this.
"Come on," she says. "It's only an hour and twenty away. We'll be back before you know it."
"You come on," he argues. "I drove you to six different gas stations yesterday when you wanted a churro."
And damn – Santana's nothing if not persuasive.
"Look," she begins and Sam already knows he's lost this battle, "I need this. These aren't just any cigars. These are the same kind my grandfather used to smoke and I haven't been able to find any around here. Believe me, I've looked. Sure, I could buy some cheap ass imitations, but what would my abuelo say? 'Oh Santana, go ahead and take shortcuts in life because I know how difficult it is to find quality tobacco.' No! He'd roll over in his grave."
And since he can never say no to any girl in her time of need – even ones who pour Kool Aid on his white shorts and tell everyone he's on his period – he agrees. On one condition. "If Brittany sits behind me, can you tell her to quit kicking my seat?"
Santana, who doesn't bother to look up from filing her nails, scoffs. "Tell her yourself."
"Well, I would, but ever since you two made up I can't get a word in edgewise. It's all, you're way cute, Brittany. No, you are, Tana! Let's make out. Barf."
"It's not cheating if I stick my boot up your ass."
Sam clears his throat. "Let's hit the road, shall we?"
"That's what I thought."
Summer's drawing to a close and he still isn't allowed to deejay. Santana's "Slut Mix" – a collection of Katy Perry, Rihanna, Ke$ha songs – is blasting his eardrums out. Not to mention he can hardly concentrate on the road with all of the raucous laughter from his two backseat drivers. As much as he loves them, he needs a break and they've only been in the car about thirty minutes. It's barely drizzling when he pulls off the exit and into an otherwise empty parking lot.
The girls don't ask him why he's stopped or why he's getting out of the car. They don't care. They're making out. The physical intimacy between them doesn't gross him out per say, but he's not exactly sure when barely holding hands in public morphed into groping each other strictly in front of him. Progress, Brittany had said. This summer's about progress.
Well, things have certainly progressed, even if he's their only – albeit reluctant – witness.
"Aw, look Britt-Britt. It's a Fish out of water," Santana taunts as he slides back into the driver's seat. "I don't have all day, you know. Some of us are on a very tight schedule."
"Yeah! Lord Tubbington needs his nougat and sprinkles ASAP," Brittany chimes in.
"Hand check first," Sam says. Both of Brittany's shoot straight in the air. Santana's - one wedged between the seat and Brittany's butt and the other decidedly under Brittany's shirt - remain where they are. Sam sighs. "Santana."
"Sorry, Dad," she complains, grumpy that her alone time with Brittany was interrupted. "But this is my car. My car, my rules. Remember? And for another thing, my windows be tinted. Meaning that I am free to express myself any which way I choose. And I am expressing my desire to grab some ass."
Brittany laughs. "And tit."
"Just don't look in the rearview mirror, Fish," Santana adds with an evil smirk.
The trip is surprisingly uneventful. They get the goods and go. What happens when Sam gets home is the real shocker. His family, oddly enough, is celebrating something in their tiny motel room. Stacy and Stevie are jumping from bed to bed and his mom is crying tears of joy.
"Dad – what's going on?"
His father turns to look at him. It's the happiest Sam remembers him being in a while.
"I was offered my old job, kiddo."
"That's great news!" Sam rejoices. "I love it here. This way I get to spend my senior year with all of my new friends–"
"Sam… I meant my job in Tennessee."
When the Evanses left Tennessee, Sam thought it was the end of the world. And now that he has to leave Lima, he knows it is. There's no way he can leave McKinley; sure, he won't miss getting slushied, but leaving McKinley means leaving glee club. And leaving Titans football. And leaving Brittany. But most importantly, leaving Santana, the best friend he's ever had.