You've seen her almost every day for two weeks. It amazes you how entirely intrigued you are by this woman. Brittany, she's like no one else you've ever met. She takes you to her secret spots around the city, spots where she can sit with Otis and paint, undisturbed, spots where she can be alone with her thoughts and she doesn't have to worry about running into anyone. She takes you inside her apartment and shows you where she paints— you were right about the window, her easel is there— and the wall that surrounds it is covered in paint splatters. But other than the paint splatters, she's organized, meticulous and impossibly neat.
You take her to Reading Terminal and coax her into eating chocolate-covered onions, even when she looks at you like you're insane. You take her to the radio station late at night, when they run syndicated programming and you don't have to worry about anyone being there. You let her try on your headphones and touch the dials, and you sit in your chair for her, because she wants to take pictures of you there. You take her to your apartment, where you're a little embarrassed at the clutter. She teases you about being a hoarder, but she smiles, she smiles so much. She wants to know you, the real you, in your own spaces. And you want to know her like that too.
You have dinners and brunches and lunches. You walk. You drive the two of you to New Jersey one afternoon, because she's never been to the Cherry Hill Mall, and you feel comfortable shopping for clothes with her. You kiss, you kiss a lot, whenever you can. And still, after dozens of them, you know you'll never get sick of the little sounds she makes, or the way she always holds your hand after, like she doesn't want you to go too far away. You practice your sign when she's not with you, because you want so badly to be good at it, and when you try in front of her, she takes your hands and helps you shape the symbols properly. You're falling for her. You're falling for her so hard. You're falling for her, and you love every moment of it.
Eighteen days after you first met, you're picking her up for brunch. You've introduced her to Bellinis, and since she's in agreement with you that they're a hundred times better that Mimosas, you want to take her to University City, because there's a place that has the best ones you've ever had. She lets you up to her apartment when you get there, and while she finishes getting ready, you sit on her couch, and you scratch beneath Otis' neck, enjoying the way he lolls his head back. You never pegged yourself as a dog person, that's for sure. Or a cat person. Or an animal person at all. But Otis. Otis you've taken an immediate liking to, and you think—or maybe you just hope—he's taken a liking to you, too.
You hear keys in the door, and you startle. You startle, because you didn't think Brittany was expecting anyone, but also because you find yourself worrying a lot about her safety. You know it's unnecessary. You know that she's been taking care of herself for a long time, much longer, even, than she's lived on her own. But you care about her. You care about her so much, and because of that, you think it's only natural that you'd worry.
Otis jumps up from his spot, and without missing a beat, he goes into Brittany's bedroom to find her. Before they return though, a blonde woman is walking through the door, yelling Brittany's name, which confuses you. She doesn't notice your presence, though you're about ten feet from her, and before you can make yourself known, Brittany enters the room, Otis close to her side.
"Mom?" Brittany questions, her throat sounding tight, you think, though you can't be sure, and she casts her eyes over to you. "Mom. Why are you— why are you here?"
She's nervous. You can tell she's nervous. She plays with the hem of her shirt, and her socked feet twist around a little on the floor beneath her. The woman, her mother, doesn't look up from what she's doing— going through Brittany's mail, it appears— and when she talks in return, you notice that she doesn't look at her daughter. She doesn't look at her, and you're not entirely sure if Brittany understands what she's saying at all.
"Mom. Can you repeat that?" She's uncomfortable asking, she hates that, she gets embarrassed, even though you think she shouldn't. Not at all. But especially not with her own mother.
"Brittany—" You can hear the exasperation, and you try, you try, you think, without much success, not to cringe. "I said I'm going to have lunch with your sister, and I wanted to stop in and say hello."
"Oh." Brittany sucks her lips into her mouth, and looks at you. You nod, you tell her she can introduce you to her mother, though you think she's as aware as you are that you could probably sit there the entire time undetected. She moves just a little, making room, you think, at her side, and you stand, coming to her. Your fingers twitch to hold her hand, but you're unsure. You're unsure, because what you are has no label, not yet, and you don't want to cause Brittany any more discomfort. So instead, you lace your own fingers together, and you straighten your posture. "Mom, this is Santana."
The woman, Whitney, you think Brittany had told you her name was, looks over at you. Her eyes flicker with something you can't detect. Something that makes you fight the urge to cringe again. She finally stops rifling through the mail, and she approaches. Otis shifts. He does it in the most subtle way. But in these past few weeks, you've come to notice how in tune he is with Brittany. He's in tune with her, and he puts himself, just a little bit, between her and her mother. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes your heart ache. But Brittany doesn't falter, and you won't either.
"Hello." She speaks far louder than she had for Brittany, exaggerating her words on her lips. And you realize. You realize she thinks you're deaf. She thinks you're deaf, and she's making an effort to speak to you so you can understand. One she doesn't bother to make for her own daughter. "I'm Whit-ney. Pierce. Brittany's mo-ther."
"Hello, Mrs. Pierce." You extend your hand, mustering up every ounce of manners and respect that your mother trained into you from a young age. No matter what, Santana, you show respect. Whether they deserve it or not. You never give anyone any more opportunity to look down on you than they'll already take. "Santana Lopez. It's so nice to meet you."
"You. Speak. Ve-ry well." She enunciates, and you swear you hear Otis whimper a little in secondhand embarrassment.
"Mrs. Pierce, I can hear." You inform her, and a look of utter disbelief crosses her features.
"You can hear?" She taps her own ear for effect, and you nod. "Well why didn't ya say so? Now I feel like an idiot."
"For what?" It's taking every single ounce of self-control for you not to narrow your eyes at her. You know why she does. You know it's because she'd— she'd lowered herself, you think bitterly.
"Well for talking at you like that." Whitney rolls her eyes and looks at Brittany. "Tea, Brittany?"
"Sure, mom." She nods, trying, you know, not to sigh, though she's extremely unsuccessful.
Brittany turns away, shooting you a strange glance, and Otis follows her to the stove. He keeps one eye on Whitney. You see it. You see it, and you don't blame him. You feel a little sick to your stomach. But she's her mom. She's Brittany's mom, and you care about Brittany very much, so you'll try to refrain from vomiting on the woman's clearly expensive shoes.
She sizes you up. Looking, you think, for some sort of defect. Whether in your physical or mental ability, you're unsure. But you let her. You keep your spine straight and your chin up, and you look her in the eyes.
"So." She snaps. "What's the matter with you?"
"Excuse me?" You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and breathe deeply.
"What's the matter with you? Seems like you can see, you've got your limbs. I can't tell if it's a TBI—"
"Mrs. Pierce. I'm not sure what you mean."
"I mean what's the matter with you? You're a very beautiful woman. You clearly can't be normal, if you're hanging around with Brittany."
A lump forms instantly in your throat. A lump you can't make go away, no matter how many times you swallow. Your eyes cast over to Brittany, where she reaches for a mug in the cabinet. You can't believe you're thinking it, but you're so glad her back is turned and that she can't hear any of this. Her mother. The woman who's supposed to keep her safe at all costs— that's what your own has told you, anyway— is inspecting you. Inspecting you, not because she doesn't think you're not good enough for her daughter. But because she thinks her daughter isn't good enough for you. Brittany hasn't talked much about her. Not really. Not since that slip of the tongue the first time you had coffee. And you think this is why. You think what she'd suspected might actually be true. You think this woman might be exactly the reason why Brittany is constantly skeptical about you wanting to be around her. You think this woman might be the reason why Brittany questions kindness and closes herself off. You think all of these things might be true, and the sick feeling at the pit of your stomach becomes almost unbearable.
"There's nothing wrong with me. And there's nothing wrong with Brittany either."
"Oh, cut the crap. She. Cannot. Hear."
"Yes, Mrs. Pierce, I know." You bite your tongue so hard that you draw blood, and glance over to the kitchen again, locking eyes with Otis for an instant, before looking back to Whitney. "But that doesn't mean there's something wrong with her."
"Look, honey, you've been around, what? A month? Max? Try twenty-two years, then go ahead and tell me there's nothing wrong with her. I don't know if you've got a deaf kink, or what your story is, but just by the looks of you, you've got the whole world wide open in front of you. A world that just doesn't accommodate my daughter like it accommodates you. Think about that."
You don't know what to say. You feel your mouth open and close, but you really, really cannot find the words to say in response to her. She's wrong. She's so wrong, about so much of it. She doesn't know you at all. And clearly, she doesn't know her daughter at all either. You haven't known Brittany that long, sure, she's right about that. But you want to. You want to stick around, you're going to stick around, for as long as she'll have you. And yeah, okay, Whitney is right about the world not accommodating her. But that's what she doesn't understand. She doesn't understand how Brittany has made her own world. Her own safe place. She had to do it. You understand now, about her reaction to your sign books. You understand her words. You understand, and your heart aches for this girl who paints her world on paper and who shows you it in her universe eyes. She keeps herself safe there. She keeps herself safe, because there's no one else who will do it for her.
"Here mom, your tea is ready."
Brittany comes back carrying the tea for her mother, and you feel yourself burn with shame that you didn't get to respond. You want to tell her all these things. You want to tell her that you want to be around Brittany because she's Brittany. That you want to be around her because she's so special. Because she makes your heart do things it never has before. Because when you kiss her, everything else fades away. You want to be around Brittany, and you don't care if she's deaf, or blind, or polka-dotted. Nothing, nothing changes who she is inside.
The room feels heavy around you with Whitney in it. Brittany seats herself in the armchair alone, pulling her knees to her chest. Otis doesn't lie down at her feet. He sits at attention in front of her, and you notice the way she holds onto him. You don't know what to do. She's closing herself off and it scares you. Your mind is reeling with everything Whitney said, and you hate yourself that you couldn't think fast enough to defend her out loud. You're quick with your tongue, that's who you are. But with Brittany, everything feels so much bigger than words. And you failed, you think. You failed where it really mattered.
Thankfully, Whitney doesn't stay long. She finishes her tea, and suddenly she's in a great hurry to go. You missed a lot of the conversation between them. You were so lost in your head. You were so irritated every time Brittany had to ask her mother to repeat herself. You're new here. It's not your place to judge. You know that. Your mother always told you that anyone else can say what they want about their parents, and you should still never, ever add your own commentary, but—
"I'm sorry she showed up here. She does that sometimes." Brittany stands over where you sit on the couch, after she shows her mother to the door. "I should have told her we had reservations, I just. I don't know."
"It's okay, Brittany." You look up and her, and you give her a soft smile.
"Santana." Her eyes are serious, so serious, and she sits down beside you. She doesn't touch you, she doesn't find your hand. She just sits. Rigid. Guarded. "She said something to you."
"She—"
"Look, please don't lie to me, okay?" Brittany cuts you off before you can say anything, and Otis rests his head on her knee, letting her stroke him. "I know how she is. She doesn't make an effort to talk to me so I can understand her, but, I'm actually surprised she waited until my back was turned to say something about me. She usually doesn't. It's fine. It's fine, really."
"Brittany." You reach over to take her hand, but she retracts it, tucking it between her thighs instead.
"I get it. Okay. I get it. It was hard for her, when I stopped being the smartest kid in class, and when we couldn't go on vacations anymore, because of all the doctors. I get it, and I'm sorry." She doesn't look at you, but you watch the tears trickle out of her eyes, tears she quickly wipes away, tears that you feel the burn of, even though they don't touch you. "I'm sorry that I'm not who she wanted me to be. I am."
"Brittany." You don't know what to do. She won't look at you, and you can't speak to her if she doesn't.
"I've really had a good time with you. And. Thank you for that. I. I get it."
"Brittany." You stand up, and then you sink down to your knees in front of her, because it's all you can think to do to get her attention. She keeps ranting, you can't understand all of her words, but you're trying, you're trying so hard. "Look at me. Please look at me."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm acting like this. You can go."
"Brittany." You say her name again. You need her to know this is for her. Only for her. "She wanted to know why I was spending time with you. She wanted me to know why, and I didn't answer her."
"Santana." The way she says your name is so broken that you think it's entirely possible that your heart begins to bleed. "I understand."
"No." You shake your head. "No you don't."
"Yes, I—"
"Please let me talk." You beg her, and slowly, she nods, stiffening her spine and wiping her eyes. She won't let herself cry anymore, but she clings to Otis, and he doesn't move from where he rests. "I didn't answer her, because I couldn't put all of my reasons into words fast enough. You are—" You pause, you're trying to remember, you'd seen it, you'd banked it in your brain, but you want to get it right. Carefully, you extend the pointer finger of your left hand, and you pinch it between the thumb and pointer of your right. Brittany gasps a little, and you feel you eyes mist. Special. "I'm only just getting to know you, but every day, I want to learn more and more. I want to see more of your world, and I want to show you more of mine. I know that it's hard for you, because you haven't been given much of a reason to by others, but please—" You close your eyes for a moment, but you can still feel hers on you. When you open them again, you see nothing but brimming blue, and you tap your right pointer to your forehead, almost like a salute, and then bring it down to be caught in your left, before pressing that same pointer to your chest. Trust me.
Brittany doesn't say anything. Not for a long while. She just stares at you. She just tries to read how sincere you are. And in response, you try to show her. You keep your eyes on her. You don't try to touch her. You just wait. You just wait, because you think, in that moment, that you want this more than anything in the world. You want her trust. You want her to know that you won't hurt her. You want her to know that you won't push her. You want her to know that you'll do everything in your power to prove your worthiness to her.
Slowly, she releases her grip on Otis, and he drops down to his belly. Lying there, covering her feet. She looks at you. She looks at you like maybe you're the universe, and she folds her fingers into her palms and brings them up to her chest, before turning them outward toward you. You don't know the sign, but you think, you think you understand her. You think her eyes tell you all you need to know.
"I'll try," she mouths, and she opens the palms of her hands for you. Letting you take them. Letting you in.