Chapter Five

Santana hated monthly lunch meetings with Quinn. She hated them. She hated that Quinn always looked so put together. She hated that Quinn always had a new picture of Beth to show her. She hated the phrase, "I'll have to leave by 4 to get back in time to have dinner with Carl." She really didn't even know why they still did it. Well, yes, she did. They had always had monthly lunch meetings. No, that's not true. They had lunch everyday together for three years. Then, it became once a week when their 'status' changed from 'in a relationship,' to 'it's complicated,' and then back to just best friends. Facebook didn't have a 'best friends' option. That's how you know it's really over.

Before Santana had even caught her breath from the breakup, Quinn had married Carl Howell and had moved to Connecticut. Fucking Connecticut. She didn't even bat an eyelash at moving out of their city. Now, the lunches were monthly. Without fail, Santana sat across from Quinn in a booth at Vic's Diner once a month. She fucking hated it. Something was different today, though. After all of Santana and Quinn's tired history, after Carl, after Baby Beth, today was the first time she felt guilty about monthly lunch meetings.

Santana was lying at the foot of her bed, tucked into a fetal position and eyeing her cell. She had been toying with a thread on her sweater for at least fifteen minutes. She was procrastinating and she knew it. This was so stupid. She should not feel guilty. There's nothing to feel guilty about. Her and Quinn are so, so, soooo over. And her and Brittany are...? She couldn't even complete the sentence. Nothing? Interested? Pre-gaming? Talking with the option to date? No, there's no dating someone on the opposite coast. There's no 'just dropping by,' or 'let's grab a movie tonight, or 'hey meet me in twenty and I'll blow your mind.' Santana needed those things. She needed them to be options. She didn't even know if the other woman would consider it...or her. No, Brittany most certainly wasn't an option.

She really would appreciate it if her the niggling at her brain that said differently would just shut the fuck up already.

Santana eyed her phone again. She had been trying her best to keep it at arm's length. Not only because she liked calling that Washington number a little too much, but because now it held a picture of one Brittany S. Pierce. She had received it in a picture message a couple days ago. Immediately, she assigned the picture to Brittany's contact information. She then proceeded to stare at it for two days instead of calling. Santana was attracted to her. She was before, of course. She already loved her laugh and her sighs and her sleepy voice. Now, though, Santana knew about the blonde hair and the blue eyes and the whole fucking All-American girl-ness of it all.

"Don't be such a pussy," the brunette chided herself and pulled the phone toward her. She made quick work of getting to her call screen before pressing the home button. She waited for the ding. "Siri, call Brittany."

"Calling Brittany," Siri said back to her. Santana could swear that bitch was getting a kick out of her anxiousness. Even Santana's electronic devices had attitude problems.

"Hey, New York," she heard after a few rings. "I was just thinking about you."

"I'm a lesbian," Santana blurted.

"I like country music," Brittany replied in a heartbeat. "Wait, is this the confessions phone call? Did I just say that for no reason?"

"You already knew," the brunette eyes narrowed.

"Of course, I did."

"And you're cool with that?"

"If I wasn't, it would be pretty hypocritical," Brittany reasoned.

"Oh." Santana wasn't entirely surprised, but she suddenly wondered just where on the Kinsey scale Brittany fell. Not that it mattered because her brain was practically screaming, 'option!'

"Yeah," the West Coaster said like it was obvious all along. Maybe it was.

"Cool."

"Aren't you at work?" And just like that, most of Santana's apprehension was erased because it really was a non-issue.

"I was working a few minutes ago," she informed Brittany. "I was trimming down the guest list for Rachel and Finn's Hudson/Berry Last Day to Wear White Pre-Labor Day Celebrity Charity Golf Event's dinner session. Then Kurt had some crisis with Louboutin having sent a similar shoe to Kristen Stewart. Which she wore last night, so now, of course, Rachel can't wear them. And to top it off, the Golden Ticket has the third day chemical peel blues. She has a customary 48 hours before she'll let anyone see her. To her that equates to talking with anyone as well. So, I have to pass all messages to her via text. And I just had a really uncomfortable conversation as Rachel with one of her dads about his Irritable Bowel Syndrome."

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way," the blonde said with a little hesitancy, "but everything about your life is weird."

"I'm not sure there's a right way to take that, but you're 100% correct," Santana dislodged from the ball she had wrapped herself up in and leaned over her phone. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting on," she paused for just a second, "Joe at Kinko's to make me 35 presentation packets." She then whispered, "I'm not sure if Joe is a man or a woman."

"And everything about my life is weird?" After taking a few moments to enjoy the sound of Brittany's laugh, she spoke again, "Hey, there's something I want to tell you."

"Oh, another confession," she caught the mirth in Brittany voice and adored it. "Shoot."

"Okay," Santana leaned up on her elbows and rested her head in her hands. "I'm having lunch with my ex-girlfriend."

"Cool."

The brunette tried to analyze that answer, but there wasn't much to work with. "She's married."

Silence.

"To a dentist from Connecticut that looks like Uncle Jesse from Full House."

Silence.

"She has 1.5 children and teaches American History to dirty college kids."

"One point five?"

Santana was grateful for a response, "They recently got the kid a puppy."

"Puppies are cute," Brittany said.

"It's a Pomeranian."

"They got a puppy from the Middle East?" Brittany asked. "Sounds expensive."

While Santana knew she really should correct the misunderstanding, it was all too enticing to go along with it, "They're kind of pretentious."

"But why pretend?"

"Who knows," Santana replied. "I had a Beagle as a kid."

"Aww," Brittany said with a cute chuckle. "I had a diabetic gerbil."

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know. I don't know why. I mean, I loved her. Past tense," Santana rambled. "Well, I always will, but only because she was my best friend for a really long time. She was my girlfriend, too, but more importantly, she was my best friend. And, honestly, when she got married, I may have still loved her. Which is why the Olsen twins are huge rage triggers for me. But, now I don't. Love her, that is. Romantically. I still have rage when I see MK and/or Ashley, but it has nothing to do with Quinn. We just have lunch once a month. And I wanted you to know that that's what I'm doing today. That, and having a text conversation with Rachel's partners at Berry Fusion."

"Berry Fusion?"

"It's her production company. And yes, I know it sounds like a cheap body wash."

"Or a really delicious sports drink," the other woman offered. "So, you lost me somewhere in there. What was her name?"

Despite the backtracking, Santana knew exactly what she meant, "Quinn."

"It's nice that you can still be friends with Quinn," Brittany said. "I'm not really friends with my exes."

"Well, I'm not really friends with anyone...so I have to keep her around."

"We're friends," Brittany announced. "Aren't we?"

"Yeah, absolutely," it was punctuated by a sharp nod that the other woman couldn't see. Sentence completed. She and Brittany were friends. Friendly friends. "Of course, we're friends, Britt." She couldn't help the buzzing in the back of her brain that kept telling her it could be something more. But it couldn't. Not when the other person was across the country. Not when they barely knew each other, or about each other's lives, or friends, or families. Not when the girl seemed this perfect, because there was always something. Always.

All of her doubts really didn't seem to minimize the possibilities, though. She thought about the possibilities nearly constantly now. She was still clouded by a 'possibilities haze' when she slid into the booth facing Quinn at Vic's.

"I ordered for you," Quinn told her without greeting.

"Thanks," Santana discarded the menu she had grabbed. "I met someone." What was with this blurting today?

"You met someone?" Her ex seemed a little shocked by that.

Santana immediately took offense to it, "Yeah, I meet people."

The corners of Quinn's mouth stretched her lips into a line in an attempt not to laugh. "Sure you do, Santana."

She opened her mouth to make a smart ass comment, but stopped. She didn't want to start off that way today. So many of these monthly lunches devolved into her being bitchy and Quinn being self-righteous. It didn't mean she didn't feel the need to prove something, though. "Her name is Brittany."

The other woman leaned in, her hazel eyes already questioning. "By all means, tell me all about this Brittany. What does she do?"

Santana sighed and picked up the menu again. She opened it and pretended to read. "She's in advertising."

"What agency?"

"New Directions," Santana answered without looking up.

"I've never heard of that one."

"Up and coming," the brunette blindly reached across to grab Quinn's water and take a drink.

"Her or the company?"

"Both."

"Where is she from?"

Damn. Santana froze. She had no fucking clue where Brittany was originally from. "West Coast," she replied with a squeak.

"California?"

"Washington."

"Seattle?"

Santana dropped the menu, "Jesus Christ, Quinn, do you want me to draw you a fucking map? Yes, Seattle. What the fuck does it matter?"

See, this is the point where most people would drop it. They'd shake it off and mark it down to Santana just being Santana. She's a bitch. She's awful sometimes. Not Quinn, though. Nope.

"How long has she lived in New York?"

"She doesn't."

"Jersey?"

Santana closed her eyes tightly. This wasn't going to end soon. "No."

"Philly?"

"No."

"Upstate?"

"She lives in Seattle, Quinn," Santana had finally had enough. "She lives there still."

"Oh," the blonde raised an eyebrow. "Was she in town on business then?"

"No."

"Did you meet her through Rachel?" Quinn asked. "Because all of her people are completely morally bankrupt. We've had this conversation a million times."

"Rachel didn't introduce me," Santana assured her.

"Kurt then?"

"I didn't meet her through Kurt. I didn't meet her at a party and she's not a hooker. Okay?"

"Well, I knew she wasn't a hooker," the married lady said. "You said she was in advertising."

"Let's drop it," the brunette nearly pleaded. Their usual waitress picked that time to deliver Santana's usual iced tea to their usual table. It was all so maddening.

Quinn stared right through her. "What's she like?"

"What part of drop it didn't you understand?"

The blonde tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're the one that brought her up...Brittany, you said? Brittany who?"

"Brittany, yes, her last name is Pierce. Brittany Pierce," Santana confirmed. "And she's...something."

"Something?" Quinn leaned back in the booth with a self-satisfied grin. "That's vague."

"Ambiguity is my super power," the publicist told her. She wanted to leave it at that. That would have driven Quinn nuts. She knew the lack of definites and the greys would get under the other woman's skin. Quinn hated blurred edges. But, for the first time in the longest time, something won out over bugging the living crap out of her ex-girlfriend. She wanted to talk about Brittany. She wanted to tell someone about this one in a million thing that had fallen into her lap. Santana looked Quinn in the eye, "She's awesome. She's hilarious and kind. She's quirky and...easy."

"You're such a slut," the blonde scoffed.

"No," Santana rolled her eyes, "Not that kind of easy. She's easy to talk to. She's open. I've never met anyone like her."

"That sounds incredibly cliche."

"Cliches are cliche for a reason, Quinn," Santana argued. "And also, I can be as slutty as I want to be, but I haven't slept with her."

"That's pretty shocking," the blonde said as their meals arrived.

"Again," Santana unrolled her silverware, "she lives in Seattle."

"I still don't understand," Quinn stated as she speared a tomato on her salad. "How'd you meet?"

"We haven't."

The blonde choked on said tomato and desperately took a swig of water to wash it down.

"Yeah," Santana smiled ruefully.

"Please tell me how this came about."

"It's a long story," the brunette shrugged.

Quinn glanced at her watch, "I have until four, spill it."

Santana did a quick shake of head, refusing.

"Okay, you led with, 'I met someone,'" Quinn pointed out. "And then went on about how wonderful she is-"

"There was no going on-"

"And now you haven't actually met her?"

"No."

"You said you'd never do online dating sites," the blonde reminded her.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Santana asked. "That's not what happened."

"Wha-, where did, how...huh?"

"Wrong number," Santana mumbled in between bites of french fry.

And then Quinn laughed. She laughed for a long time. More than the polite amount of time to laugh in public. It was a long enough laugh that people started to look in their direction. She quit twice, but started again when she caught Santana's horrified expression. "You're joking, right?"

"No."

"So, you," Quinn pointed with her butter knife, "Santana Lopez, just randomly called a girl and fell in love with her."

"First of all," the brunette's feathers were ruffled, "I didn't call anyone, she called me. Secondly, at no time did I say 'fall' or 'in' or 'love.'''

"What does she even look like, Santana?"

"She looks like a fucking troll, Quinn," the publicist shot sarcastically. "Why would you even ask that?"

"Because you're incredibly shallow."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Santana asked loudly while looking at a woman seated a table over. The woman discreetly slid her chair further away.

"Oh, I don't know," Quinn chewed on a piece of bacon, "because it's true."

The brunette took a drink of her tea and set it back on the table. She internally debated telling the next part of the story. "We've been talking for about a month now. Not everyday, we're both pretty busy, but a few times a week."

"Okay," the other woman was intrigued.

"Of course, I was curious about what she looked like-"

"Because you're shallow."

"No," Santana argued. "Because I like her."

"Go on," Quinn was practically half way across the table by now.

"So we finally exchanged pictures a couple days ago."

"...And?"

"I..." Santana stopped. "This is embarrassing."

"That only makes me want to hear it more," Quinn was practically hanging on every word.

"Okay," the brunette began again, "I spent three days picking the right picture. Three whole days. I mean, I narrowed it down from 47. My hair had to have just the right amount of curl. My clothes had to cling in just the right places. I strategically avoided the six months I was obsessed with that hideous eye shadow that nobody told me was horrible. I even scanned the backgrounds with 400x microscope."

"All the important stuff."

"I did a fucking poll, Quinn," Santana confessed.

"Who answered the poll?"

"Kurt, Rachel, Bieste, Figgins," Santana really didn't seem to want to divulge anymore, but she relented, "and a homeless guy that grows pot under a bench in Central Park."

"Which one did you pick?"

"That one at your wedding. The one of the two of us outside, and I'm laughing because Carl got shit on by that bird. I look fantastic." The brunette was pleased and then added, "I cut you out, of course."

"Oh, yeah. That's a great picture."

"I know."

"Your hair did look amazing that day."

"I know."

"And red really is your color," Quinn complimented her choice further. Then added under her breath, "Even though you were supposed to be wearing creamsicle orange."

"All these things are true," Santana said. "And that was the ugliest fucking dress in the world. You couldn't have gotten me into that if I was chloroformed and rolled up the aisle on a Radio Flyer."

"So what does she look like?" The blonde was practically foaming at the mouth for this information.

"That's the thing," the publicist whined. "I spent all that time picking out a picture. I started as soon as she suggested the idea. And you know what she did? She waited until the picture exchange day and just snapped one right then and sent it. No big deal. I mean, she's wearing a hoodie and sitting on her bed. Lord Tubbington is chilling in her lap and she's drinking a Fresca."

"What's a Lord Tubbington?"

"The luckiest fucking cat in the contingent United States."

"Lemme see," Quinn held out her hand and wiggled her fingers with urgency. "I assume she's less than trollish?"

"She's fucking gorgeous," Santana pulled her phone out of pocket.

"Even in a hoodie?"

The brunette found the picture and smiled at Brittany's grin and bright blue eyes. She slid the phone across to Quinn. "Even in a hoodie."

"She's really pretty, Santana." The blonde stared for a few moments before saying, "You're in so much trouble."

"More true things."

Two things occurred to Santana that day at 4:00. One, watching Quinn leave didn't sting like it did before. And two, monthly lunch meetings were about to get much more tolerable.