Every night, you unravel the times when you should have realized you loved her. There are so many times that you don't know how you could miss it for so long. You think about that last time she spent the night, before the morning when she wanted you to talk about feelings. You held each other the whole night, between sleeping and sex, so that you can't remember when one ended and the other began. Like those dream-kisses that first summer. You want to go back to that night and look into her eyes as you pull her waist against your body and move slowly and gently inside her, with her lithe leg draped over your hip. You want to talk to her as you make love to her and tell her all of the things that you love about her. The way she always moves as if she's dancing. The little things she does when she thinks no one is looking: twisting a lock of her hair around a pencil and letting it spring free, doodling tiny dancing figures in the corner of her notebook. The weird things she says, that make everyone either stare or laugh, but that make your heart collapse with affection.

You want to go back in time and tell her yes, I will sing Come To My Window with you for our duets assignment. You want to tell her, of course what we do is different from anything we've done with other boys and other girls. Those boys made you feel cheap. She makes you feel precious. She treats your body as if giving you pleasure were an act of devotion. She makes you feel beautiful.

You want to get on your knees and undress her slowly. You want to take the time to kiss every part of her: her hair, her eyelids, her elbows, the tops of her thighs, her ankles, her fingertips. You want to worship her hands and her shoulders and her ribs and her hipbones and her pretty knees. You want to keep your eyes on hers as you touch her, as you move inside her, as you make her come.

You want to tell her how you love her over and over and over again, so she will never doubt or forget it.

Then you think of Artie, and you want to pummel her, to tear her hair out by the roots, to bite her, to cry out at her and burn all of those cards she's made you over the years that you keep in a box in your closet.

Every morning, you have a few seconds of weightlessness before the memories plummet into your belly and drag you down. You want to sweep up all of the pieces of that wall you let crumble and glue them back together, so you're that same bitch who doesn't let anyone mess with her and doesn't let anyone—not anyone—get under her skin. You know that Santana. Now you're a stranger, even to yourself.

Besides everything, nothing has changed. You don't break up with Sam. You still see Brittany every day—you have to—but you haven't said a word to her since that afternoon at the lockers.

At night you can't stop thinking about her. You're like a bee that can't stay away from a can of Coke. But at school you can't get far away enough. Whenever you see that she's considering approaching you, you find somewhere else to be. Across the room, or arguing with Berry and Quinn about writing music for Regionals, even though you don't give a shit about anything anymore. Even locked in a bathroom stall, if you can't find another way.

Doesn't matter where. Just not with her.

She finally blindsides you when you're at your locker and asks what she did wrong. As if she doesn't know. In that moment, your anger overcomes your love. Barely. You want either to slap her hard or to kiss her harder. Instead of doing either, you just snap at her, to scare her away. Even so, even after what she did—how badly she hurt you—it's still as hard to be a bitch to her as it is easy to be one to everyone else.

Just out of spite—for him or for Britt, you're not really sure—you write a mean song about Sam. Maybe deep down you're trying to get him to dump you. You haven't let him touch you since you realized how indifferent you are to sex with guys. It's like eating pork at your abuela's because it's rude not to, even though you don't really like it, and try to swallow it as fast as possible without chewing.

To your surprise, it's Puck who picks up on your misery. He invites you over for a beer a week or so after Regionals, and despite your doubts about his intentions, you take him up on it. You slouch in the recliner in his living room, across from the couch where Puck's sitting, and play with the lever so your legs rise and fall with the panel.

So you don't want to make out? you confirm. You must have it bad for the prize pig.

Don't be a bitch, Santana. I'm just trying to be a better person here. I mean, we're friends, right? Anyway, I can see you're fucked up over something. It's totally obvious.

Fuck you, you snap. Your face is hot. Are you so obviously betraying yourself?

Chill out. I meant to me. Babe, I know you better than—well, almost anyone. He smiles. If it makes you feel better, I don't think anyone's noticed but me and Britt.

You look down at the mention of her name.

Yeah, I thought it was her, says Puck, and tips back the last of his bottle of beer. I know you guys aren't sitting together these days. She's always with Artie. Which is so weird. I mean, I like the guy okay, but I can't believe a chick that hot is with him.

Tell me about it. You slam the rest of your beer. The carbonation stings the back of your eyes.

Did you guys have, like, some sort of catfight?

Your throat burns with beer and an angry retort to the word catfight, but you swallow them both.

I'm in love with her.

Puck coughs and slams his empty bottle onto the coffee table.

Are you fucking serious?

Don't be an asshole. You asked me. Puck is looking at you funny, and you feel sick. Why did you tell him?

Dude, it makes perfect sense, he says at last. I don't know why I never saw it before. He grins creepily. It's totally hot.

You're disgusting.

Just male, baby.

Thought you were trying to be a better person.

Yeah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He swats at the air as if brushing away the thought of you two together. Anyway, did something happen?

You pause. Oh, what the hell.

I told her. She chose Wheels McLoser over me.

No fucking way! He scrunches his nose. Who would choose him over you?

Britt, apparently.

He shakes his head, still wearing that stupid smirk.

What?

I should have known it when you sang that song. Trouty Mouth. That poor sucker.

Should have known what?

That you've gone total rug muncher.

Look who's talking, fat fetish.

He laughs. I miss you, Lopez. But seriously. If there's one thing I've learned from chasing that enormous ass, it's that persistence pays off. The Santana I know wouldn't just roll over and let someone way less hot keep something she wanted without putting up a fight.

I can't. I've already humiliated myself. You know I don't do that. You pick at the damp label on your beer bottle.

Make her jealous? he suggests.

Didn't work.

You can't mean with Sam. He gives you a long, dry look and shakes his head.

What are you suggesting, then?

Another chick.

You finish peeling off the loose label in one clean piece. Your cheeks burn.

Like who?

Who were you sleeping with before?

I don't sleep with girls. Well, except Britt.

Okay. There's the first step. You got a fake? All right, my cousin can get you one. And then, we're going to get you laid.