Writer's note: I try not to use too much canon verbatim, but "Sexy," for obvious reasons, must be an exception. Thus: major spoilers for 2x15 in this and the next chapter.
It all starts to fall apart when Britt wants to talk about feelings.
You've touched and kissed and fucked all night in your bed, and you're doing her hair, the way you like to after Britt sleeps over. As her hair slips through your fingers, you can pretend for a minute that it's still the old days, when you didn't have to share her with anyone.
When Artie and I are together, we talk about stuff like feelings.
Why? God, did she have to bring him into this?
Because with feelings it's better.
You focus on your makeup to keep from reeling from the punch the words deliver to your chest. So it's not as good with you.
Are you kidding? It's better when it doesn't involve feelings. You know you sound mean. For once, you feel mean, even toward Brittany. I think it's better when it doesn't involve eye contact.
I don't know, I guess I just don't know how I feel about… us.
Look. You straighten up your bed, still mussed from sex, and try to sort your thoughts. You can't believe you're having this conversation, and you kind of want it to go away. Let's be clear. I'm not interested in any labels. Unless it's on something I shoplift.
I don't know, Santana, I think we should talk to somebody. Like, an adult. This relationship is really confusing for me.
Your heart is beating too hard. If only everything could just slow down so you could think.
Breakfast is confusing for you, you shoot back, buying time.
She gives a sweet Britt response, but you can't just smile and brush off the anxiety like you usually do. It's gathered into a knot at the base of your belly.
You agree to talk to Miss Holiday, who sits you down in a dark classroom.
I want to ask both of you if either one of you thinks you might be a lesbian, she begins. Your stomach jolts at the word—from fear or from recognition, you're not sure anymore. You look at Britt, who's staring at her hands.
I don't know, she mutters.
Yeah, you manage. I mean, who knows? I'm attracted to girls; I'm attracted to guys. I made out with a mannequin. Now you're just laying it on thick. I even had a sex dream about a shrub that was just in the shape of a person.
Well, we've all been there, Miss Holiday muses. Her eyes glaze over as she reminisces about her all-women's college. Anyway, it's not about who you are attracted to, ultimately. It's about who you fall in love with.
When she says it, you feel that recognition again, that dread, like something's crumbling inside you. Something you're not sure you're strong enough to hold together anymore. That you're not even sure you want to hold together. You watch Brittany as she responds.
Well, I don't know how I feel because Santana refuses to talk about it, she says, almost too quickly. She tries to meet your eyes and you just can't. A lump starts welling in your throat.
Miss Holiday suggests that you sing something in Glee Club, and you press back the lump long enough to think of something about falling, crumbling. Then it comes to you. You thought of Britt when it last came on your iPod, though at the moment you couldn't have said why.
I have the perfect song, you tell them.
When you sit on stools in front of Glee Club the next day, a panic seizes you as Miss Holiday begins to pick the first riffs. You can't believe you're singing this in front of everyone. In front of your boyfriends. In front of Quinn. In front of the dwarf. Puck. That new bitch. But you don't look at Artie or Sam or anyone—except Brittany.
As you look into her eyes and sing to her, you forget them all. You only see her eyes, kind and sweet and full of love for you, just what you were afraid of seeing when you were fucking because you knew exactly what it would feel like. Like your heart is a bag of sand and someone pierced a hole in it, like all of you is falling out and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You try as long as possible to keep back your tears—but it's like asking yourself not to get wet when Brittany kisses you. You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body refuses to lie along with you.
Is that really how you feel? she asks, with infinite tenderness, once the song is over.
Mm hm, you answer, unable to find even yes in your throat.
When you embrace, your body relaxes into hers as if no one else was in the room, clapping for you.
Then the dwarf ruins it. Congratulates you on exploring the world of Sapphic charm. You snap back at her as if you're angry, but you know that snapping sound is just one more crack, and the crumbling thing inside can't stay together much longer.
That night, you lie back on your bed alone and think. You think about Brittany. About the summer feeling. About the way you feel when her fingers are inside you. When you touch her. About the way your chest tightens when you catch her eye and the way you look away so it won't happen again. You think of all the times you've told her—told yourself—those stupid things you knew deep down were lies. That this didn't mean anything. That you felt something for Puck, that you'd ever felt anything for Puck. Without waiting for that last crack, you let the lies go, let them fall and shatter.
You're in love with Brittany.