When Puck texts you to ask for the dirty details, you tell him nothing happened, that no one was hot enough and you flirted your way into a ride home. After what he did for you, you probably owe him the truth, but Puck and the truth would add up to trouble. Besides, you kind of like having it a secret, something of your own, that you bagged a hot 21-year-old.
At any rate, after how mind-blowingly good it felt to have sex with another girl, you're certain of one thing: you're definitely, definitely gay.
Your heart still feels like it's been cranked through a pasta cutter ever time you see Britt with Artie. But being sure you're a lesbian does something to you. It's not just about being in love with Brittany now: it's about who you are and what you want, and that puts you back in the driver's seat, because Santana Lopez is a girl who gets what she wants.
Being a Sapphic sister is like putting on x-ray specs. You had no idea how many queers were in Lima, Ohio, but suddenly it's like the whole town's been taken over by rainbows. The guy who sells lottery tickets where your mom shops for groceries, who's always checking out the bagger boys. That barista chick at the coffee shop with short fingernails and too many rings. Even your chemistry teacher, Mr. Henley, who always seems to bump into the freshman English teacher just on the way to the teacher's lounge.
Still, Dave Karofsky—Lord Dickface von Slushington—that one throws you for a loop.
It's so easy to play off his fear. He's got so much more to lose than you. You're not ready to be outed yet, but it's going to happen eventually—at least, when you find a way to get Britt to be with you. Karofsky's afraid of his own damn shadow.
The plan goes off without a hitch: you start an anti-bullying league—may come in handy soon, for you too—bring Kurt back to McKinley—you have to admit, you've missed his snark—and now you're dating a football player again; best of all, you don't even have to put out for yet another meatball jock.
Damn Brittany for making you feel like a fool all over again. One look from her at the lockers when you refuse to wear the shirt she made for you and you feel as cowardly as Karofsky. How dare she condescend to you like that, after all the times you've protected her and kept her from feeling bad about herself?
Anyway—who are you kidding? Every time you think you've got yourself under control, you spot Brittany and you feel as if your chest has been carved open like a Thanksgiving turkey. You're lost, and there's no finding yourself until Brittany belongs to you.
Since you tapped into your inner gaydar, you've kind of forgotten that it works the other way too. So when you catch Kurt looking at you one day in Glee and realize you've been staring at Brittany again, it takes you a minute to realize that he sees straight through you.
You immediately rummage in your backpack for some lip gloss. Way too late. Kurt looks like the cat that ate the damn canary, and it's making your heart pound.
He keeps you after practice on the pretense of asking about a number for Nationals, but you know that's bullshit. Still, this is going to go down sooner or later.
I know, he says, as soon as you're alone. And it's okay.
Know what?
He gives you a withering, oh-honestly-Santana look. The kind Brittany gave you in the hallway when you showed her your Bitch shirt for the Gaga assignment. Kurt's expression makes you feel almost as small and ashamed.
Fine, you say. You know. What do you want, a cookie?
Hey, don't be like that. I'm on your side.
What do you want from me?
Just to help. We friends of Dorothy have to stick together. He leans against the piano. I haven't forgotten the way you stood up for us in the hallway before the benefit. And even though Karofsky seems to think you did what you did for Machiavellian reasons, I'm still grateful for what you did to make it safe for me to come back. He clears his throat. So, I have a question.
You say nothing, waiting.
Why are you pretending to date Karofsky?
You narrow your eyes. Kurt, you know why.
Self-loathing homophobia?
Big talk for someone who pretended to date Brittany last year. It's the first time you've said her name in this conversation. You realize how rarely you let yourself say her name out loud these days, like it has some talismanic power over you. You swallow and look at your feet. But when you look up, Kurt doesn't look smug or knowing; he looks so genuinely sad for you that it makes your throat catch.
Don't look at me like that, you say.
You're luckier than I was when I came out, he says. The person you love loves you back.
She doesn't, though, you say, and you feel yourself about to break down again.
She does, insists Kurt. It's so obvious. She worships you, Santana. But do you really think acting like you're ashamed of what you feel for her is going to make her leap into your arms?
You say nothing.
Come over to my house this weekend, he says. You and me and Blaine, we're going to talk this out. He smiles. Oh, and by the way—you don't need to worry about any of this leaving the room. As you know, I'm very good at keeping secrets.
It's getting a little easier to talk to Britt—at least, when Artie isn't around to remind you that you're her second choice. She still hasn't been to your house since your locker confession; you're not sure you could handle seeing her on your bed.
Before you go over to Kurt and Blaine's, you pull the shoebox of Brittany's cards and pictures out from the corner of your closet for the hundredth time in the past few weeks. You tell yourself that you just need a reminder of why you're about to tell two more people about this thing you're having a harder and harder time keeping a secret. But you forget your excuse for doing it as soon as your fingers riffle through the construction paper and glossy photo prints and notebook pages. You find the one you need: a scrap torn from the top of her history notebook last year, written on in pink felt-tip marker. She'd slipped it under your folder during class when she saw you looking troubled. You don't even remember what was wrong that day, because as soon as you unfolded it and read what was inside and caught her secretive grin, whatever had been bothering you vanished.
Surrounded by little flowers and two tiny ballerinas, in Brittany's ballooning script, it reads: San, did you know you're my favorite thing in the world?
When you ring the Hummels' doorbell, Finn answers. He seems as surprised as you to find the two of you on opposite sides of his front door. You won't lie: you completely forget sometimes that the two of them live together.
Santana? What are you doing here?
You're struggling for a reply when Kurt's voice rings from the stairs, The doorbell's for me. Once he reaches the bottom of the staircase and sees that the door's already been answered, he shrugs and smiles at you.
Come in, Santana. Blaine and I just started Cabaret. He turns to Finn. Santana is doing a report on the modern movie musical for American History. We're giving her a primer.
Finn doesn't look convinced, but he just shrugs.
Okay. That's cool. He flashes that little crooked grin. Anyway—uh, nice to see you, Santana.
Kurt shows you up to his room, where Blaine waves at you from the bed, eyes fixed on the screen where Liza Minelli dances in fishnets and a bowler hat.
Settle in, Kurt tells you. I'll go downstairs and get you a Perrier.
You scope out the seating situation and pull over Kurt's desk chair to straddle. Blaine tosses you a sham pillow and you wedge it between your body and the seat back, folding yourself over it and resting your chin.
Kurt comes back, hands you a bottle of sparkling water and a straw, and settles on his bed. Blaine rolls over and rests his head in Kurt's lap. Kurt cranks down the volume with his remote, and both boys turn to you expectantly.
What? you say. You're the one who invited me here.
Yeah, says Kurt, to discuss your problem.
You wonder again what you're doing here. You and Kurt have never been close, and Blaine—well, you can count the number of times you've hung out with him on one hand. Blaine seems to sense your hesitance and shifts a little to look closer at you.
Listen, Santana, Kurt and I have been where you are. We get it. You don't have to feel ashamed or embarrassed.
We just know you probably don't have that many people to talk to about this, adds Kurt, and—well—what you did about Karofsky, that was pretty amazing.
We just want to help.
You look at their faces, both so earnest and kind, the way nobody's ever really been with you except your mother—when she can be bothered—and Brittany.
Okay, you say. Where do I start?
The beginning, suggests Kurt.
Well. We've been friends since fifth grade, and I guess we've been sleeping together for, like, almost two years.
Wait. Kurt's double take almost throws Blaine's head off his lap. Two years?
Let her talk, says Blaine, rubbing the back of his head.
Anyway, you know how it is for us. I guess it just never felt like it meant anything. Well—you correct yourself—at least I got pretty good at convincing myself it didn't. But it was always different with her.
They're both smiling now, on your side, and you feel yourself open up, almost physically, like the doors of a cage swinging open. The narrative flies out of you so easily it's like it was always meant to be out in the open. You don't leave things out the way you did with Puck or your mother; you don't beat yourself up the way you did talking to Hannah. This isn't a confessional. It feels like—well, almost like talking to Brittany.
So how have things been between you since you told her you loved her? Blaine asks.
Weird, you admit. We still talk a little, not like we used to, but every time she gets near it I can just—it's like I feel a door in me slam shut. It just hurts too much, you know? I can't be that vulnerable again. And she keeps pushing me to come out and I'm just not ready.
I get that, says Kurt, but if you really want her, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to.
Why? Tears spring to your eyes. Why can't it be her turn to put herself on the line?
Sounds like she kind of has, Blaine points out gently.
Okay. Kurt sighs. Time for some tough love. Try to put yourself in her shoes. You have feelings for your best friend, whom you're sleeping with, but every time you start to tell her how you feel, she shuts you down and says that what you do together means nothing to her.
You crumple in your chair like he's punched you in the stomach.
So then, Kurt continues, you go find someone who makes you feel safe and loved and isn't ashamed to show he loves you, and all of a sudden your best friend decides she loves you after all and wants you to just drop everything to be with her. Why would you suddenly trust her when she's hurt you so much in the past?
God, you really feel like shit now.
Point is, Santana, do you really think being hostile and closed off is going to make her come to you? I mean, I know it hurts to think of being so honest again, but it's the only way to win her back. She keeps telling you that; you're just refusing to listen.
He looks to Blaine for confirmation. Blaine gives him such a soppy smile of admiration that your stomach twists even tighter.
Listen, says Kurt. Finn told me about your Landslide duet. He said he's never seen you like that before. That he's liked you better ever since you did it. I bet you anything that's the Santana Brittany loves—the one who sang her a love song in front of the whole Glee Club.
You flush with an emotion you can't quite identify. It makes your throat tight. Everything Kurt has said stings—because it's all true, and because it means you're going to have to crank up the thermostat of your own personal hell to an even more sweltering degree. But no one knows better than you the value of being brutally candid when you've got something real to say. Honestly, you're grateful that someone finally gave it to you straight.
Guys, you promise you really won't tell anyone about this?
Of course not, Blaine assures you.
We don't believe in outing people, adds Kurt. You'll come out when you're ready. Until then, we'll hold onto your toaster oven for you.
Between pain and relief, you're so close to crying you want to run out of the room and back to your car. But instead, seeing your distress, Kurt drags you off your chair and pulls you onto the bed. At first you stiffen when he and Blaine wrap you in a collective bear hug, but slowly you relax and settle into the sheets.
It's going to be all right, says Blaine.
Yeah, put it out of your mind for a while, agrees Kurt. Nothing a little Liza can't help. He turns up the volume on Cabaret. Besides, now that you're family, we've got to educate you on your heritage.
You can't help but smile at that one. Maybe it wouldn't hurt after all to have a couple of actual friends—besides the one you're in love with, that is—even for a girl like you.
Especially for a girl like you.