(Author's Note: Chers lecteurs, I do read—and enjoy—your reviews, and wanted to let you know I'm listening.
Now and then I get mentions in reviews about the style: either the second person or the lack of quotation marks. There are also no italics. I thought I'd take a sec to let you know why I do it this way, especially since I do use pretty conventional formatting/narrative techniques in "Pas de Deux."
The reason the story's told this way, as opposed to the more straightforward style of Brittany's account, is to create a claustrophobia around Santana's character: she's both a character with tight control over herself and a character who is ultimately unable to control that which she most wishes to control. First person narration would offer the same opportunity to express her unreliability, but would limit my vocabulary and narrow the voice; in second person, we see what Santana has to keep telling herself—or, alternatively, what the little voice is trying to tell her. Keeping others' dialogue in the same format highlights the fact that everything comes through that tight filter; the mélange is, in some ways, exactly the point, as she's sometimes unable to distinguish her outward projections and her inner insecurities.
I hear you in that it might be a little trickier to read; even though I try to clarify with dialogue tags, sometimes I don't catch everything, as I write quickly and with no beta. For those of you who aren't huge fans of the style: thanks for sticking with the story anyway. I adore my readers and always appreciate your reviews!
As for this chapter: I'm still working on the events of Rumours and hope to post it for you by tomorrow, but I've been scrambling to finish my thesis by the end of the week and can't promise anything. Hope this tides you over…)
It's almost exactly a month after you told her you love her that Brittany finds you again, at your lockers, and asks you to come home with her.
Britt, I can't.
Sure you can. You're still my best friend. Britt takes your hand and swings it in hers. You don't pull it away.
I don't know.
Just come over. I really want cookies but I don't know how to make them. You have to help me, okay?
You smile at her. She reflects your smile back, three carats stronger. It's impossible to stay strong around her. You don't want to, even.
Okay. I'll come over.
It's already six, but Brittany's kitchen is still full of sunlight. You've just started melting the butter in a saucepan on low heat when Britt calls you over.
San, it's going everywhere, she whines. She's trying to scoop the flour you ordered her to measure out into a teacup using a soup spoon. There's a halo of flour on the counter, and her hands are as white as a marble statue's. You can't help but smile.
Britt, when I say a cup, I don't mean just any cup. I mean one of these. You hand her the one-cup measure. Try just digging it in like a shovel. You show her with a half-cup measure of white sugar. She looks at the canister and the cup doubtfully. You laugh.
Here, this'll be more fun, you say, and slide over the bag of brown sugar. Now, just dig the cup into the sugar and pack it in like you're making a sandcastle.
She packs the sugar with the heel of her hand, smiling, and afterwards you have her turn over the sugar turret into the mixing bowl. After pouring in the white sugar and butter, you crank on the hand mixer, and Brittany watches as you beat it into a smooth slurry. She cracks in the eggs as you mix—one, two—and you pour in a generous puddle of vanilla extract.
Smells good, San.
Yeah. You can never get too much vanilla extract. It's basically the shit.
You and Brittany have made chocolate chip cookies a good dozen times before. You never use a recipe: your cousin in Cleveland taught you as a little girl. Melt the butter, two parts brown sugar to one part white, tons of vanilla and milk chocolate chips. Her secrets to perfect cookies—and now yours. Even though you've done it so many times together, Brittany never remembers how to make your cookies. Or, at least, she likes to be taught again and again.
But this time, it feels different. As you scoop and roll cookies to place on the baking sheets—Britt's twice as fast as you, and sneaks more bites of cookie dough into her mouth as she works—you just want to take her hands and lick her fingers and palms clean and then kiss all of the chocolate and butter and sugar from her mouth. It makes you ache that you can't.
You okay, San?
Britt's looking at you with a cocked-ear puppy expression. The glob of cookie dough in your hand is getting too hot and the batter is oozing along your heart line; you must have stopped working as you fantasized about kissing her.
I'm fine.
While Britt sits on the bed, munching a fresh cookie, you sit at her desk chair, curled up and clutching your knees. You've never sat on this chair before—it's kind of stiff—but you can't sit on her bed with her now. Not when everything in you is aching so hard to kiss her.
I missed having you here, she says. I forgot how much my room smelled like you until it didn't anymore. I mean—it smells like cookies now, but it'll smell like you after you…
Britt trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence, as if saying the word out loud would make you leave right now.
You remain silent. You're wondering why you came here. It hurts too much. You feel like you have nothing to say, because your days are filled with thinking of her. It's like when you cook something with garlic in the kitchen and the smell soaks into the whole house, into your clothes and your hair. Brittany's seeped into every room of you.
Why won't you come sit with me here? she asks, patting the space next to her. The puppy look intensifies.
You know why, Britt.
Are you still punishing me? Britt's voice is so soft and sad that your heart crumbles a little.
I'm not punishing you, you assure her.
Then come here. Just for a few minutes. You feel so far away.
She looks small, legs folded in front of her. She clutches her ankles like she's doing a ballet stretch and rocks a little. You sigh, get up, and go lie down on the bed, as far away from her as you can. It's no use. As soon as your head's on her pillow, Brittany is using you as hers, pulling your arm over her shoulders like a shawl and nuzzling into the soft dint of your shoulder. God, she smells so good. She feels so good. Your heart is about to crack open your ribs. She must hear it, with her ear pressed just next to your breast like she's listening to a conch shell. Her lips are about an inch above your nipple. Why did you move to the bed? You knew it was a terrible idea. You swallow so hard it echoes in your ears.
It's okay, San, she whispers. What we do isn't cheating, remember?
You realize what she's really asking you. Your heartbeat revs up even harder, like Brittany's twisting the ignition.
It isn't, right? Britt's voice begs you to agree.
Right, you tell her.
She shifts her head to kiss the side of your breast, and you shudder as if she were touching you. It's almost too much. All you can hear is your own heartbeat, which is all over you now, like a slick beating skin. Her lips move to the soft place where her head was just resting, then to your collarbone, the divot of your throat—you have to tilt your head back, and for just a moment you're afraid she'll bite your throat clean through—and all over your neck. Her mouth is the softest warmest wettest thing you can imagine—well, besides maybe one more thing.
No, you remind yourself. You can't. You can't. You can't do this.
You open your mouth and draw in the breath that will stop Brittany, but instead, Brittany stops your mouth. Your lungs are about to burst until her tongue runs the length of yours, and you sigh into her. She tastes like cookies and brown sugar and your sweat and, best of all, like Brittany.
As you kiss, she fits her body over yours and settles softly and slowly. You try to stop your body from rising to meet hers, to keep your legs from parting around her hips, but you can't; it's like trying to hold your breath or stop blinking. Your heart still beats in your skin, hardest of all between your legs, and even though you're both wearing jeans, you feel like your bare skin is meeting. You sigh again, a pitched sigh that sounds more like a moan.
It feels so good. Too good. You moan as she rolls her whole body against yours, over and over; you clutch her back and hold her to you and kiss her so your sounds vibrate against the wet length of her tongue. Your eyes are shut tight to dam the tears that would turn your moans into sobs.
She parts her mouth from yours.
Santana, open your eyes.
I can't. I—Oh!
You cry out in surprise: her body has rolled against yours one more time and you're over the edge, pushing yourself helplessly against her over and over. You didn't even know you were close. And for the next few seconds, all you can remember is that Britt's with you—she catches on and kisses you while the hardest waves rock your hips.
Your eyes are still shut. You feel so open and helpless—and now humiliated, for coming like that, fully clothed, before she even touched you. And it's then that you break. You open your eyes now and let yourself cry. Brittany holds you and kisses your face and strokes your hair out of the way of your tears. Her eyes are soft and glassy too.
Don't cry, San. It's okay.
No, it's not, you tell her through your tears, but you can't explain when you're trying so hard to pull yourself together. You bite your bottom lip so hard you taste iron.
Yes it is. It's okay. I—it just feels good to be close to you again.
Your heart pounds. You say nothing.
Stay the night, she says in a whisper that tells you exactly what you'd be staying for.
You want to say no. You want to feel bad about what you've done, since you know it's only going to hurt more to see her with Artie in the daytime and let her fuck you in her bed whenever she wants. It isn't fair. But you don't want to leave; you don't ever want to leave her body that feels like everything you ever wanted and could never have.
Okay, you tell her. She kisses you and you know she tastes herself on your mouth, tastes herself and you—all you taste is Brittany Brittany Brittany until you think you'll die of it.