For a day after Santana told Jacob Ben Israel that Dave Karofsky was her soulmate while her eyes bored into Brittany's, Brittany can't feel anything but anger and heartbreak. It's like her heart is a crumpled ball of paper that's been lit on fire at the edges; she feels the corners of herself curling in and blackening. She comes home looking so pale and wrung that her mom asks her if she's sick and heats her some soup.
By the second day, her anger has dimmed and cooled, like the fire has hidden deep in the core of her chest. She can smile; she can pretend. Her mom's hand presses to a calm, dry forehead.
The third day, she feels dried-leaf-thin and used up. Her anger is eating itself into regret. Why did she push so hard? How could she think Santana was ready? San told her she wasn't ready.
The fourth day, she's beginning to crumble. She thinks her cheeks might look a little thinner. From regret, maybe, but mostly from loneliness. Her phone is quiet, when she's used to Santana-Artie-Santana, text after text. While sunning herself in the backyard, picking apart and shredding pieces of grass, she finds a four-leaf clover, and her pain quiets a little until she realizes there's no one to tell. Then she feels even worse.
Every day as she walks down the hallways, Santana and Karofsky stare at her, cold and still, from those stupid prom campaign posters. But the real Santana, her San, is afraid of looking at her.
On the fifth day after Santana broke her heart, Brittany can't feel anything but missing San.
The walk to Santana's house at night smells like jasmine. She remembers San pulling a branch down to show her the blooms one night the summer they were twelve, burying her nose in them and telling Brittany to do the same.
"They only open when it's dark out," she'd whispered. "I think if there's a heaven, it smells like this." Then she smiled, just a little, before remembering herself and shrugging. "I mean, if I believed in that kind of thing."
Brittany had taken her hand then and laced her fingers in Santana's. In the darkness, San would never resist her.
As she walks through the park and along the streets she's known by heart for years, she sifts through gravel and bends underneath trees to pick up little round pebbles. She and San collected a whole jar of them that same summer, that first summer, when things were so easy.
She knows which window is San's, of course. She's never had to sneak through the house that way after hours, since Santana's parents aren't too worried about her coming over even really late at night, the way Brittany's are. But she has seen it open tons of times, seen Santana lying back on her bed, or watching TV, or fixing her makeup—or even looking outside for Brittany. She's always a little embarrassed when Brittany catches her like that.
But tonight she opens the curtains to Brittany's face and reels, lifting a hand softly to her chest. Brittany's heart pounds as Santana opens the window. The light behind her makes a halo over her dark hair and puts her in shadow, but Brittany can still make out her features, read her naked wordless longing.
"Come down," she calls up to her.
San comes quickly, wrapped in a blanket. She looks so small these days. She was always thin, but lately she's seemed the wrong kind of skinny, greenish-pale-skinny, like the girls on the Cheerios who starve themselves, whose collarbones jut out underneath their uniform tops. She looks ready to break at any minute.
Brittany pulls the pencil from behind San's ear—she must have caught her in the middle of math homework, since that's the only thing San ever does in pencil—and resists the urge to kiss the sadness and strangeness away from her face. Instead, she touches her cheek.
"I thought you were angry," whispers San in a cracking voice.
"I was," Brittany begins. But her voice stops in her throat. What else can she say? There's too much—and not enough. Instead, she takes her hand.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?"
San clears her work from her bed and lies down next to Brittany, who pulls her body in as naturally as her feet turn into ballet positions. They've worn into each other like that.
"I couldn't stay angry," she admits to San. "I tried." She breathes in some courage for the rest. Santana's head rises with her ribs. "I wanted to be like you. Angry. Strong."
She tries to explain. But it's times like these that Brittany's words wiggle away from her, and she hopes Santana will just know what she really means, the way only San can do.
San does understand. She looks at Brittany, uncertain, and moves in to kiss her. And oh, how Brittany wants her to. But she can't.
"No. Don't kiss me," she whispers. San stops and draws back a little, looking wounded. "I'm not ready," she explains. San just nods and begins to pull away.
"Can we just"—Brittany searches herself for what it is she wants—"hold each other?"
Now it's Santana who pulls her into her Brittany-shaped groove. Strokes her and kisses her hair. Brittany begins to drift into little ripples of sleep, finally empty of all of those terrible feelings, if just for this one hour. She thinks about her chilly walk home, about lying on the cold place where Santana's body now heats hers, and she doesn't think she can face it—not tonight.
"Can I stay over?"
"Yeah. Of course." San shifts and a little rush of air comes between them. "Let me get you some pajamas." But Brittany holds her back, afraid that the warmth, the peace, will go away if Santana breaks contact with her for one second.
"No. Don't leave me."
"Shh." Santana's body softens back into hers. "Okay. I won't. It's okay. I've got you."
It's enough. For just tonight, it's enough. Brittany drains, soft and slack, into the hollows of Santana, and falls into fast, dreamless sleep.
One thing's for sure. Brittany can't not go to prom. There's no way. She really wants to go: to wear a dress, and dance, and see everyone all dressed up when it's dark outside. She doesn't even know what some of the Cheerios look like with their hair down, even after having been on the team almost three years. It's amazing, the simplest things you still don't know about people you've known for a long time.
After school, the day she wakes up in Santana's arms, Brittany goes dress shopping with Tina. That girl is a great shopping buddy. They share a dressing room so they can giggle and twirl for each other and switch off on zipping and re-hanging detail.
"So, who are you going with?" Tina asks in their third store dressing room, trading a fresh dress for the one Brittany's just shimmied off.
"No one," says Brittany. She practices her careless shrug.
"I know Artie would go with you, if you wanted. It doesn't have to mean anything."
"I don't want to go with Artie," she snaps. Tina's hand falls in surprise at the outburst; the skirt of the dress she's holding pools on the ground.
"I'm sorry," says Brittany. "I didn't mean to shout at you. It's just… I don't want to go with Artie. I want"—she thinks of Santana, but she can't tell Tina about San—"I want to work on me, you know? Do my own thing."
Tina nods. She slips the dress back onto the hanger and hooks it high on the wall.
Actually, since her breakup with Artie, Brittany's felt a lot closer to Tina. They've bonded over having the same ex—Brittany hears that happens sometimes—and she seems to have convinced Tina, finally, that she's not out to steal Mike Chang. Brittany asks how things are going over a shared tray of fries in the food court. Tina grins.
"I mean, this is probably going to sound stupid," she apologizes, mopping up a puddle of ketchup with two fries, "since we're only seventeen and all, but sometimes… I think he might be the one." She pops the fries into her mouth to keep her grin from spreading.
"That's not stupid," says Brittany. "What makes you think so?"
"I don't know. It's just, when I look at him—when he looks at me. The way… I see him, you know? Like we're the only two people in the world who really see each other."
Brittany nods. "I think I know what you mean."
That night, she finds herself back at Santana's window. The image of Santana with her halo, hand at her heart, is never ever going to leave Brittany. She's pressed it into herself like one of the daisies she presses in her textbooks.
San comes down more quickly this time. It's a miracle again that they don't kiss, there in the dark on the wet grass, when it smells like summer and night and Santana.
This time, San leads her up the stairs by the hand, as if Brittany didn't know the way. As if she'd get lost if San let go.
"Are you staying over again?"
"Can I?"
"Yeah. Let's get into pajamas before we lie down." She digs into her drawer and tosses two shirts and two pairs of cotton shorts onto the bed. Brittany takes one of each and turns her back to change quickly, unhooking her bra underneath the sleep shirt and slipping it off through her sleeve. She can hear by the rustling and gruff breath that Santana is doing the same thing. How funny—like two shy twelve-year-olds at a slumber party.
They lie down. Santana is being careful. So careful. She flicks her eyes over Brittany's face, her hair, her chest. Her fingers draw curlicues over Brittany's sleeve, and even that light touch is making Brittany's heart grow wild. She begins to slide her fingers into Santana's hair, but when San's eyes flutter shut, Brittany knows she won't be able to stop herself from kissing San if she holds her that way. So instead, her hands retreat to Santana's cheeks.
San's eyes snap open, and suddenly everything is gone except for Santana. Brittany freezes. Holds her there. Holds them together—right there.
"Britt-Britt," whispers San, her gaze darting from one of Brittany's eyes to the other. "What are you doing?"
"Shh," Brittany calms her. "Just let me look at you." She wants San's eyes to settle and still again, and they do, slowly.
They breathe into each other. It's almost like their eyes are breathing into each other too. Brittany never knew there were so many colors of darkness, turning and shifting and falling like a kaleidoscope. San is letting Brittany see her. And everything in her is a little too beautiful. It's like she only looks at the Santana of the hallways through mirrors. This—this is her San, straight on, and she's dizzy and drunk with looking at her.
She's not so drunk that she can't see Santana's throat ripple with a nervous swallow. Reluctantly, she slides her hands from San's face to her shoulders, and pulls her close into her chest.
It's weird. Every day, at school, they wander through their routines like little peg dolls on a clockwork track: barely touching, never looking. But every night, in Santana's bed, Brittany is taming her, gentling her, trying to tell her over and over with her eyes, you're safe. She knows that if only Santana believed her, if she understood, everything would be okay.
But she can't make San understand all at once. It's not that easy. She knows that now.
Santana knows too. She asks for more time.
"Not too long," Brittany says, and it's not a threat, it's a promise.
The whole thing is super, super embarrassing. One second Brittany is cradling an egg in Home Ec, and the next, she's being ambushed by Artie and his army of guitars, chasing her all over the classroom, like a fly trapped in a room with the windows shut. Finally, feeling everyone's eyes on her, she gives up and slinks back to her seat, waiting for it to end—and praying it will be quick.
When it's over, Artie looks so sure he's won, so shiny-faced, that she wants to punch him. It's the same expression he used to wear all the time, when he told her how proud he was to have her, so why does it make her so angry now? It's not just the song. He meant well—even if what he actually did was humiliate her by making her refuse him in front of a whole classroom of people, making her the bad guy. It's like he's watched too many of those stupid romantic comedies and thinks any girl will melt over being serenaded in front of a million people. As if she's just any girl.
But wait—that's it. That's what's bothering her. To him, she might as well be any girl.
He doesn't know her.
Yes—that's definitely what's boiling in her now. What should have bugged her all along. She thinks back, over all of those times he gave her compliments. They were stenciled, ready-made, like the paper dolls Brittany used to buy in those books and punch out with her fingers. You're so pretty. You look so beautiful in this light. I'm so lucky. She's reminded of the jigsaw puzzles she liked to do with San in sixth or seventh grade, the way you suddenly spot that one piece you've been looking for forever, and now that you've fit it into its niche, you can't believe you didn't see it before.
"Artie, that was lovely," she says, politely, "but I'm not going to go to prom with you." She ignores the way his face falls like a leaking balloon, and finishes her piece. Stands up for herself. She can feel everyone staring at her, but she doesn't care if she's the bad guy. She's sick of tiptoeing. And there's no way anyone else is going to tell her what to do.
Besides—her loneliness is gone now. In a few more hours, she'll be in Santana's bed, safe and warm in the arms of the only person who really sees her. The person only she really sees.
"I heard about Artie."
San tries her best to filter the worry out of her voice, but her eyes can't lie, not when they're directly fixed on Brittany's. They're face to face again—even closer than usual—and Brittany's stroking San's palm with her thumb to keep her still and calm.
"So," San continues, "what did you say? I mean—after I…" She trails off for a moment. Her eyes waver away for a moment before she can pull herself together. "I get it, if you said yes."
Brittany shakes her head. "I turned him down," she assures her. "Duh." She shifts her thumb and squeezes San's hand full and flush in her own.
"Why?"
"I told you, I'm done with him."
But San's eyes don't clear and settle yet. Her focus is shifting between Brittany's eyes again. She's struggling to say something else. Brittany waits.
"Are you done with me?"
Oh. Brittany's heart breaks open and folds in easy as an old taped-together box.
"You're different."
She wants to kiss San so bad, so bad, but instead, she kisses her nose. Her cheek. Then she can't stop, somehow: she covers San's warm face with kisses. God, she smells good. She can almost taste Santana's breath as her lips drift apart, begging to be kissed. Her stomach clenches. Before she can stop herself, her mouth slides to Santana's like a magnet: gentle at first, barely brushing, until she feels Santana's soft moan shiver over her lips; she presses harder then, and pulls San close, weaving the fingers of her free hand into San's hair the way she wants to every night when she's cupping San's face. In a flash, Santana's body is flush and beating against hers. God, Brittany wants her so much she feels sore from it, like a deep bruise. San wants her just as much: her body moves against Brittany's in soft slow ripples. Brittany forces herself to pull back. She kisses San's mouth again and again, a half-dozen little apologies.
"Let's not break each other's hearts again, San," she begs. "I want you. I do. But I want all of you. It can't be like it was before."
San smoothes back Brittany's hair and bites her lip. She locks her eyes back into Brittany's—there's an easy groove now; they've worn into each other's eyes the way they've broken in their bodies—and swears, "It won't be."
"Good," says Brittany, trying to keep her voice ironed straight and strong. After all, they're playing the long game now. She's got to pull herself together. No rushing. "Then let's take it slow."
"Okay."
The night of the prom, when everyone else is gathering and talking and laughing at Breadstix, Brittany sits at the kitchen table with her parents and her little sister. Her hair's only half curled and she's wearing a button-down pajama shirt, waiting until the last minute to put on her dress.
"No garlic," her dad says, pointing at Brittany's penne with his fork. "I left it out. No need to scare everyone away with dragon breath at the prom."
Brittany rolls her eyes. "Thanks."
"We're glad you're going," says her mom, brightly, stealing a quick glance at her dad. "You know, I never had a date for my school dances. I just went with my friends. We danced with plenty of boys and had a great time."
"I know, Mom. You told me that yesterday."
Her sister gives her a little kick under the table. "Darcy told me that Artie sang a song to you in front of everyone and you still wouldn't go to the prom with him, and that makes you a giant b-word."
Brittany blushes. "Shut up, Ash. You don't know anything."
"Ashley," her mother steps in. "You know they're not together anymore. Brittany doesn't need to go with anyone if she doesn't want to." She turns to Brittany. "And don't tell your sister to shut up."
Brittany pokes at a piece of pasta, spearing the hollow with a single tine of her fork and splitting it along its seam. With a little pang, she imagines Santana eating baked spaghetti right now, across the booth from Dave Karofsky.
"Can I go upstairs and finish getting ready?" she asks.
"Sure," says her mother. "I'll be up in a few minutes to help you finish your hair."
Brittany flinches a little at that, thinking of the last time Santana helped her curl her hair for a party, accidentally nicked the nape of her neck with the curling iron, and, with a little gasp, immediately dove in to kiss it better. They ended up getting to that party over an hour late—with most of the curls in the back of Brittany's hair flattened out.
"Fine," she manages, before throwing her napkin on her chair and flying upstairs to pull on her dress—and pull herself together.
After she parks close to the main entrance in the nearly empty lot, Brittany leans her seat back for a minute and opens the sunroof. The stars are out. She's decided to learn the constellations—she even checked out a book of them, complete with diagrams and myths, last week at the library—and she traces a few of them with her fingers. She knows she should be inside right now, in the choir room, warming up and going over the set list, but she just can't yet. She needs a minute to herself. Wasn't that what she wanted from tonight? To work on her?
She knows what's really gluing her here, though. To her seat, the stars, the quiet. The thought of San with Karofsky. That big brute holding her, dancing with her, the girl who rightfully belongs to Brittany but is too afraid to say so. She knows what San is going to look like. Crazy beautiful in red, her lips full and dark and her eyes liquid smoke. Brittany is taming her, little by little, but San's still going to run from her in a clearing like this, when she can feel danger shining on her too hot and too bright.
All right. That's enough. She's going in now, and she's going to have a fabulous time at this prom if it kills her.
When she walks into the choir room, Santana flashes her a helpless, melting look of love and falls out of the warmup until they shift keys.
Karofsky's sitting slumped in the back, arms crossed, and Brittany feels a weird need to claim San, like a jealous animal. She touches her bare shoulder with the sure tenderness of a lover.
"You look beautiful." Her breath whispers against the curve of San's ear. San shivers.
"You too," she manages.
Brittany drums her fingertips against Santana's skin and glances back to see if Karofsky is watching. But he's not. He's looking, with something very much like longing, at—
Oh my god. Is he looking at Kurt and Blaine?
Kurt's hand is grazing casually between Blaine's shoulder blades, the way Brittany's hand has drifted between Santana's, but the touch—though easy and sure—is anything but casual. She looks back at Karofsky. Yes, he's definitely looking at them. And he looks miserable.
Then, he sees her looking. His eyes dart from corner to corner as he sits up and rubs the back of his neck nervously.
All of a sudden, something clicks. Santana, that night they had sex and San let her look into her eyes for just a second, said something weird. He—doesn't want… that's not what it's about.
Dave Karofsky is gay.
The thought floods her with about a hundred feelings at once. Relief, since she doesn't need to be jealous anymore. Pity, from the way he looks at what he can't have—or at least is scared to have—himself.
Sadness, that Santana would rather hide behind this stupid staged lie than be with her.
She walks into the gym with the two of them. Santana and Karofsky. San leans toward her, and Karofsky fiddles with his suit, keeping his distance. Does he know about the two of them? Brittany doubts it. Though, weirdly, she kind of wishes he did.
The gym is magical. She never thought it could look like this, all dressed up so you'd never know it was a gym. It doesn't even smell the way the gym normally smells—rubbery-sweaty-waxy-chemical-lemon—instead, it smells like balloons and a hundred perfumes and freshly cracked plastic. Like when she was a little girl, the way a new toy used to smell the moment she peeled its blister pack open and held it to her nose, breathing in the smell of brand-newness. She takes Santana's hand, and San even lets her hold it for a little while.
Karofsky mutters something about bringing them punch. Maybe he can see it now, the way she and San look at each other, the same way she could see the way he looked at Kurt.
Once he's finally gone, Brittany takes a deep breath and turns to San. Her heart pounds way too loud in her ears as she works up the nerve to ask what she's longing to ask, even though she knows exactly what San will say.
"Will you dance with me tonight?"
San swallows. Her eyes scan the crowd, shifting from one person to the next. She doesn't look at Brittany when she answers.
"Britt. I'm up for queen. You can't ask me that."
And there it is. Brittany knew it. But she still crumbles a little. San sees it and bites her lip.
"Maybe," she manages, her voice tight. And Brittany knows, with just a little coaxing, that means yes. And suddenly the whole room swells and shines, bright as the constellations.
Then Karofsky comes back, and Brittany slips away before her heart can remember that Santana first said no.
She forgets soon enough. Prom is super fun. Just like hanging out, goofing off, only to loud music, with everyone in fancy clothes. And, of course, she gets to dance. She dances with everyone: the Glee kids, the Cheerios, the jocks, even a few kids from the AV club. She wants to squeeze them all, to kiss them on the cheeks and twirl them and dip them until they're dizzy.
When Santana dances with her and the other Glee kids, or the Cheerios, or the jocks—never the AV club; she's not there yet—Brittany sees the way she looks at her, like Brittany's the only thing in the room. Her rare Santana smile is out in full force, so bright it's like the spotlight to Brittany's stage.
Sure, she still wishes she could have gone with Santana. But this is good too.
For good measure, she drops in a prom royalty vote for Santana. She leaves the king spot blank. She may feel bad for Karofsky, but she can't quite bring herself to root for him yet.
Karofsky wins anyway. Brittany wants to be happy because it means Santana will win too. She supposes she mostly is. She smiles at Santana's manic excitement.
But then, Santana doesn't win.
When Figgins says Kurt's name instead of Santana's, Brittany watches Santana's face melt into the most terrifying, heartbroken look she's ever seen. She feels Santana shifting, ready to run, and—with one pitying look at Kurt, who has begin to run, weeping, to the double doors—weaves her way through the crowd into the hallway.
Sure enough—Santana arrives, choked with tears, and Brittany takes her arm and leads her into the only private place she knows will be unlocked: the choir room.
Santana is rambling, lost, pacing like a nervous animal. Part of Brittany wants to hold and still and gentle her. Part of Brittany feels cruel, and wants to ask her what right she thinks she has to break down like this when she was the one who broke Brittany's heart over this prom campaign in the first place. But the biggest part of her just wants San to see what she's seen all along: that none of this ever mattered.
"They don't know what you're hiding," she tells Santana. "They just… know that you're not being yourself."
San stops for a moment. Looks at her. Trusts her. And then she knows just what to say.
"If you were to embrace all the awesomeness that you are," Brittany goes on, "you would have won."
Santana shrugs.
"How do you know?"
"Because I voted for you. And because"—she steps closer, longing to kiss her, but knowing the words she's about to speak matter more—"I believe in you, Santana."
San is stunned. Her mouth is open. Her eyes say thank you, and that was just what I needed to hear, and most of all, kiss me now. Brittany wants to, but she won't. Not tonight.
So when Santana asks what she should do, Brittany tells her to do the right thing.
"Go back out there and be there for Kurt. Because it's going to be a lot harder for him than it is for you." She offers her a tissue from her bag and watches as San dabs it, carefully, against her eyelashes and under the rims of her eyes. She examines the black streaks and bites her lip. She wants to say something else. Brittany waits.
"Britt, that would have been us," she says, finally. "If we'd gone together."
She's still so afraid. Why won't she stop being afraid? Who cares about anyone else, when they love each other?
"You don't know what would have happened," she counters.
"This isn't New York. This is Lima, Ohio." Santana straightens up. Hardens. "We have to remember that."
"San, I get it." She can't stand it when Santana condescends to her, since San almost never condescends to her. "I was there too," she reminds her. "I saw the same thing you saw."
San looks down, sheepish. Brittany softens. No use making her feel worse. Besides—San's up next in the set list. They have to get back.
"Come on." She flashes her a quick encouraging smile. "I'll walk you to the wings."
Brittany is so proud of Santana for pulling it together and singing with Mercedes for the prom royalty dance. Maybe she'll be strong enough to dance with Brittany by the end of the night. Maybe.
After they dance in a group together, she pulls Brittany aside. For just a second, Brittany's heart thumps as she wonders whether Santana is about to ask her to dance. She isn't, of course.
"How'd you get here, Britt?" she asks.
Brittany shrugs, wondering where this is going. "Drove myself."
"Do you think I can get a ride home with you?"
Brittany's heart thumps hard again.
"What about Karofsky?" she asks cautiously.
San sighs. "He's… gone."
Brittany remembers the terror in his face when he ran away from Kurt. It makes her remember Santana's face when Jacob Ben-Israel was interviewing her in front of Brittany's locker. That panic. That self-loathing.
"Well, sure, of course I'll drive you home. Do you—"
But before she can ask San to come home with her, Figgins announces the last dance. Brittany's belly flip-flops. She can't wait any longer. Can't soften Santana any more. She takes a deep breath and goes all in.
"This is it. This is your last chance. Will you dance with me?"
She waits. San's face flickers like a TV screen with a stuck-down channel change button. She doesn't say no, so Brittany's going to take it as a yes. She takes her pinkie, the way they've done so many times in public, and leads her to a darker, calmer place.
Santana is wide-eyed and small and stiff, like a rabbit, but she follows the tug of Brittany's finger hitched to hers. Then Brittany stops, near a shadowy sparse corner, and they face each other. San swallows.
"Nobody is looking," Brittany soothes her. "It's okay. Just dance with me."
San pulls her lip between her teeth and nurses it for a moment. Brittany's heart is louder than the opening chords of "Save The Last Dance."
Then, San tips her head into the tiniest of nods.
Brittany is overjoyed. She pulls San close—not too close, since she sees San's eyes search out a dozen faces and an escape route—by a hand cupped around her ribs, just above her waist. Santana's breath catches the same way it does every time Brittany begins to touch her.
Everything in Brittany is achingly happy. It feels too good to be true: to be dancing with Santana at their junior prom, holding her closer than she's ever let Brittany hold her in public. For just these few minutes, as Kurt's close harmony tucks itself into Blaine's melody, it feels like Santana never broke her heart.
"Thank you," she whispers, at the end, thinking about San's fear in the choir room, and her courage in this dark corner. "I'm so proud of you."
San's smile seems to swell from her chest to her throat before spreading and opening her mouth. Brittany can see Santana wants to kiss her. She wishes she would—even though she knows she won't.
Not yet.
They walk out together, under the full veil of stars, pinkie in pinkie. Brittany notices a couple of strange looks—probably people wondering where Karofsky went, and why Santana isn't with him—but in a strange turn, Santana doesn't seem to notice.
"Seems like you had fun, Britt," she says, climbing into the passenger side and shutting the door in unison with Brittany's.
"I did. Did you?" She cranks the ignition while Santana considers.
"Actually," she admits, "I did."
As they wait in the bottleneck to leave the parking lot, San pulls Brittany's free hand onto the center console and covers it with her own.
"Are we going to your house or mine?" Brittany asks.
"Mine," says San. "I don't want my mom to think I'm spending the night at Dave's."
"Can't you just tell her you're spending the night at my house?"
San sighs.
"I'd rather not… complicate things. She doesn't need to know about Dave's… well, about Dave."
Brittany takes a hard, deep breath.
"What about Dave?" she asks pointedly, turning her gaze from the halted line of cars to San's face.
Santana twists to meet Brittany's gaze. She tilts her head and raises her eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"San. I know."
"About?"
"Karofsky's gay, isn't he?"
Santana gasps, reeling like Brittany's slapped her.
"How did you—"
"The way he was looking at Kurt," Brittany finishes.
To her surprise, Santana rotates back to face forward. An odd little grin replaces her shocked expression.
"Kurt, huh?" she muses. "You mean…?"
"Yeah. You didn't know?"
San shakes her head. But the grin stays.
"Makes sense, though," she reasons. "You know, he's not so bad, Karofsky."
Brittany shrugs. "I just feel bad for him." She glances toward Santana's hand that covers her own. "He's hiding because he's too afraid to go for what he wants."
San's head twists sharply toward the passenger side window. Silence falls, save for the soft, cranked-down beat of the Ke$ha album Brittany grooved to, alone and at max volume, on her way to prom. Feels like a month ago, not hours.
"You… I…" San glances back over and begins to trace the webbing between Brittany's fingers with her own fingertips as she struggles. "Britt, you know I want to be with you."
"You keep saying so." She feels a little bad at how clipped her voice sounds, feels San's fingertips pause on her knuckles, and adds, "I was really happy you danced with me tonight."
Silence—the warm, sweet kind this time. They sigh in unison.
"It felt… really good," admits San. "I want that with you. Maybe if"—she corrects herself—"I mean, maybe when…"
She trails off without finishing her thought. Or maybe, thinks Brittany, that was her whole thought.
Either way, Brittany understands.
The brake lights of the car in front of them snuff out as the line begins to move. Brittany shifts from brake to gas.
"I know, San," she says. "Now let's get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."
She can feel San grinning as they lurch forward. San clasps her hand, firm and sure, like a promise.