Two and a half months with Brittany, they've flown by. Before you know it, the entire summer is gone, and you're in September. You're in September, and the relationship between the two of you, it's growing, stronger, stronger, every day. You spend the night together more and more, mostly at her house, because she likes her routine and her order, and you're not all that attached to your place, but sometimes you do stay there too. You have food and water bowls for Otis there now. You keep a bag of his organic dog food and the treats that he likes. He's found a spot in your living room, between the couch and your bookshelf where he sleeps. And you and Brittany? She bought you a toothbrush one day, leaving it beside hers at the sink. Then you did the same in return, for her. You're making each other comfortable. You've started leaving things at each others' too. Your panties end up in her laundry, her sweaters end up left draped over the back of your couch. And you just keep them, creating drawers for each other without even trying. You're getting deeper, deeper in, and you love it.
She's met Jonas, she likes him, and he likes her a lot, too. You're glad, because really, he's your closest friend in the city. Your closest friend probably anywhere. But, your other friends, they want to meet her, too. You haven't seen much of them, since mostly, when you do see them, you end up at the bar or at a boisterous dinner with a group of them. And really, you'd rather have dinner, or drinks, or movie cuddles with Brittany. But they've been texting you. Individually, as a group, whatever it takes to get your attention, and finally, you ask Brittany how she feels about meeting your old college friends for drinks on Friday night.
Brittany agrees to go. She seems excited about it, even, you think. And you're glad for that. It's not that you even care so much about going. It's just that, you love her, and the idea of other people in your life knowing this amazing woman who changed your world, that means something to you. You're both busy most of the day Friday. You have meetings at the studio after your show, and she's behind on some of her illustrations. So after you leave her bed at four am, you don't see her all day. But, it's the night, and, it feels like it's something really huge.
You're running a little late, after getting ready at your apartment, and when she lets you in to her place, she's in a tank top and her underwear. Clothes are strewn everywhere, in a very un-Brittany like way, and Otis, he doesn't know what to make of this. You worry when she's like this. When her answers to you are clipped. When she doesn't make eye contact with you. But you know there's nothing you can do but give her space. You know, even suggesting you cancel and stay in won't do anything but put her in more of a frenzy. So you sit down on the couch, and you wait, you wait a good half hour, until she finally emerges from her bedroom again, wearing that dress you loved her in on your very first date.
"Hi, Britt." You smile at her finally, and you stand. She'd been in such a state when she'd opened the door for you that she hadn't even said hello, she just let you in and went back to her bedroom. She sucks her lips into her mouth, a little sheepish, and she steps toward you. Letting you kiss her hello. You sign to her that she's beautiful. She looks down at the floor. You feel what she's doing. You feel shut out. But, she'll come back, you hope.
"Hey. Sorry, I'm just. It just took me awhile to get ready."
"It's okay." You play with the ends of her curled hair. She really does look beautiful, so beautiful. But, at the cost of her feeling like this, you're not sure her getting ready efforts were so worth it. "Are you guys ready to go?"
"Just me tonight." She takes a breath, and she looks at Otis, who lies down on the carpet. In all the time you've been together, you've never seen him not at her side, and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, unsure what to say. Before you can respond though, she takes her hand and places it over yours, squeezing a little. "I've got you, and Otis deserves a night off."
You don't question her. You would never. It's her choice, and she knows herself far better than you do. But, you're still a little concerned. Not even about that, just about how off she seems. She's nervous. You understand it. She doesn't like being around new people. But, it doesn't mean you like seeing her like this. It doesn't mean you don't hate when she second guesses herself, and how special she is. You tell her every day. In the morning, at night, in between. You kiss her, you hold her, you love her. But you're one person, and after years, years, there's only so much you can do.
It's a nice night, so you walk. Brittany puts her arm around your waist, and she leans into you a little. She feels heavy. You can't describe it, but you notice it sometimes. Her heaviness. You want to take some of it from her, carry it. But you can't. It's impossible, it's too deep inside of her. So instead, you just offer her a place to lean. You offer her a place to run, when the weight on her back exhausts her. You love her harder, because it's all you can give to her. But even your love, it doesn't do as much as you hope.
When you reach the bar, you find yourself a little nervous. You've known these people since college. They might not be your best friends, but they've been around a long time. They're the people you hang out with, because other than Jonas, you never really made adult friends. They've been around a long time, and since your college ex-girlfriend, you've never brought anyone around. You've dated enough, sure. You've hooked up. But you haven't fallen in love. Not like this, not with a person that you want the whole world to know about. This feels like such a big deal to you. Because Brittany, she's a big deal. Brittany. She's everything to you. And all of this, it's such uncharted territory. And you're treading carefully. Because the last thing you want is for anything to mess this up.
"Ready?" You ask her. You stand across from her, you look in her eyes. She seems like she's calmed a little, and you're glad for that.
"Yeah. You're sure I look okay though? My hair's not too…?"
"I love your hair like this." You touch it for emphasis, and you stroke your thumb over her cheek. You hate this, you hate this.
"I'm sorry I'm being…"
"Don't be sorry." You shake your head. "Not for feeling how you feel. You're sure you—"
"Yes. I want to go." She cuts you off quickly, snappy, even, and you sigh. Taking her hand in yours and nodding, before you turn to walk in the door.
You're late. You're always late though. They expect this of you. But you'd kind of wanted to be early this time. You'd wanted to have time to settle in with Brittany. You always feel bad when you think things like that. You know she doesn't need special accommodation for going to a bar. But, you like to let her have whatever time she needs. And, now you're late. And Marcus and Patty and Charlie are kind of staring, watching you walk toward the back of the bar, Brittany's hand in yours.
You hadn't told them she was deaf. You realize that, as you're walking toward them. Really, truly, you hadn't thought of mentioning it, not when you'd first started dating. Not when you just couldn't stop gushing about how beautiful she was. About her paintings. About the restaurants she'd shown you, ones that you never knew existed. But now, now, as you're walking toward them, your whole body flashes hot. Not hot with embarrassment that she is. You really, really couldn't care less if she was deaf or blind or had four arms. She'd still be Brittany, and you'd still love her no matter what. No. You're hot with embarrassment because you don't want her to think you willfully kept it from them because you're embarrassed to be with her. And so you squirm. You squirm so much as you walk through the bar that you think you might be sick. You screwed up, you think. You screwed up, and you don't know how to fix it.
Marcus wolf-whistles when you approach the table, but you're too distracted to even roll your eyes. You pull out Brittany's chair, and once she's seated, you sit beside her and you hold her hand tightly under the table. Your butterflies, they've turned black, you think. They've settled to the bottom of your stomach like a lump of lead, and before you even introduce Brittany to your friends, you've flagged down the waitress, and you're ordering two vodka tonics. You're hoping they get here quick enough to numb the sting of your self-loathing. You're hoping they get here quickly, because you're probably going to need to order another.
"So you're the infamous Brittany." Patty reaches out his hand, and Charlie elbows him in the side.
"Infamous means famous in a bad way, dumbass."
"Whatever. It's nice to meet you, Brittany."
"It's nice to meet you, too." She extends her hand, shaking each of the three of theirs in turn, and it's Charlie who looks at you. It's Charlie who realizes first.
It doesn't take long before the other two figure it out. They can tell by the way she speaks. By the way she doesn't say all that much. By the way she stares at their lips, rather than their eyes, when they speak. They can tell, when you turn to sign things to her. Because you're going to act the way you normally do with her. You're not going to ruin your night just because sometimes, you lack forethought. You're not going to raise a red flag over her head, because it really just doesn't matter. None of them say anything about it. But you think, you think maybe Charlie kicked Marcus under the table. She's good like that. She's probably the only one you'd choose as a friend at this point in your life. The other two, you like them enough. But college and real life are different. They're a little immature, or, a lot immature, and— Your thoughts are interrupted by Brittany tracing her pointer up your thigh, getting your attention. She raises her fist and wiggles it back and forth to you.
"Do you want me to come?" You ask her, and she shakes her head, kissing your lips quickly.
"Stay with your friends, I'll be right back."
You watch her, just for a few steps, as she stands and walks away, and you smile. You smile, because this beautiful woman is yours, you smile, because despite the rocky beginning to your evening, it seems to be going pretty well. Brittany seems to feel more comfortable, she'd entwined her leg with yours, she'd pulled your hand into her lap, she'd poked you playfully in the ribs when you'd stolen the extra lime from her drink. The bottom of your stomach still feels a little off, but, those butterflies are funny sometimes.
"Well, that was a surprise." Marcus looks pointedly at you, and you actually feel the table shake when Charlie kicks him again. "What? Char, act like you weren't shocked, too."
"Not, shocked, just a little surprised Santana didn't tell us. I mean, the last time we saw you, Santana, you were all dreamy eyed and wouldn't shut up about her. It just seems like a big thing to leave out."
"I just— didn't think about it. It's just one thing about her." You find yourself getting defensive, your back arches, and you meet Marcus' eyes. You feel something coming from him, something you don't like, and coupled with your displeasure with yourself, it's not a good thing.
"Oh, please." He rolls his eyes at you. "You didn't think about it? You're over here learning sign language and shit. Of course you think about it. She must be a real firecracker in bed to get you like this, Lopez. All googly-eyed and stupid."
"It's not like that, Marcus." You grit your teeth and your hands ball into fists at your side. You're fighting the urge to jump up and hit him. Rage rushes through your veins. It's not even his words, so much as his tone, and then, then he starts mimicking the way she speaks, and you just—
"Marcus, stop." Charlie snaps, while Patty fidgets in his seat, unsure what to do with himself.
"Oh, c'mon, it's not like she can hear me."
"No, but I can."
You're boiling. You don't think you've ever been this angry. You're so angry that you find yourself on your feet. You're twenty-seven years old, and you've never hit a person. Not when you were a kid and they said things about your mom. Not when you thought for five minutes about pledging a sorority and then dropped out halfway through rush because the frat boys called you a slut, and then a dyke when they realized you wouldn't sleep with them. Not ever. Nothing, nothing, in all your life has made you as mad as Marcus fucking Greenberg doing what you can only assume is his impression of Brittany in bed, and before you know it, you've got your hand on the collar of his shirt, ready to destroy his pretty face. This isn't you. This isn't you, but, it's Brittany, he's making fun of Brittany. And you love her, you love her more than anything. The fury, it possesses you, and you pull back your arm, ready to hurt him.
"Santana." Her voice is low, even, when you hear it, and she has her hand on your lower back, making you freeze. Making you let go of him. Making you just, wish you could melt into the floor. Or really, making you wish you'd never come here at all. "Don't."
"Let's go, Brittany." You turn away from the table, and you look at her. You look at her, and in her eyes, you see that she doesn't need to hear the story to know what was going on. You see that she's heavy, so heavy. So heavy that you think, you think, even leaning on you, it just won't be enough.
She doesn't hold your hand when you walk home. She's lost. Lost all the way inside of herself, and your throat, it's just, it's not working. It's clogged with unshed tears. It's clogged with anger. It's clogged with utter mortification. This isn't what you'd expected to happen. Marcus, you know he's an idiot sometimes, but you hadn't expected him to be so, offensive. You love her, you love her, and you want everyone to see how wonderful she is. You'd made the mistake, not telling them. But, it shouldn't have mattered. They shouldn't need to be prepared for something that doesn't even scratch the surface of who Brittany is. You made a mistake, and now, now Brittany is tucked away inside that protective wall she builds around herself, and you're not sure you'll find the key to get in.
"Britt—" You start. You're standing outside of her house, and you turn so you're facing her. She has her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes, her eyes are breaking your heart.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Brittany, I—"
"Santana, I said I don't want to talk about it. I just want to go to bed."
"I know, but—"
"But what? What are you going to say? I know he said something about me. I know he probably told you that you were too good for me—"
"No, Britt—" You try to argue, because it was Marcus being a total and complete asshole, and you're sure you will never speak to him again, but, he hadn't said that, you would never let him say that. You'd never let anyone say that.
"And he's right, you know. He's right, look at you. Look at us. You spend all your time with me, you worry over me, I don't meet your friends for two and a half months, because I don't handle being around other people well. And then I finally do, and look, I find you about to punch a guy you've known for eight years. You've got this whole life, this, whole, whole, big life, and I—" The tears start falling from her eyes, and she wipes them quickly. She doesn't want you to see her crying, but it's too late. You do, and your heart, it aches, it aches more than ever before. "I'm just me. It's not that I can't hear, Santana. It's that I'm just me, and you're you. You say you don't see it, but how can you not? How can you not see that I'm never going to fit right in your world? How can you not see that things like this are going to happen, and, you shouldn't have to…"
"Brittany!" You find yourself screaming. You're not screaming for her benefit, obviously, but for your own. You're angry. You're angry, angry, angry at everything. At Marcus. At her parents. At the whole damn world, really. But mostly, you're angry at yourself. You're angry at yourself, because you're trying to make her see, but you're failing. You keep failing, and it hurts. "You're not even letting me talk! It doesn't matter what he said! How can you not see that? How can you not see when I look at you like you're everything? Why is it so hard for you to believe me?"
"It's hard, because if I let myself and I'm wrong, then I don't think I can handle it, Santana. I can take a lot of things, but I don't think I can take being heartbroken by you. I'm in too deep now, and I just, it's too much."
"Brittany." You say her name again, crying openly now. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know what I'm saying. I just know that you, you're too much for me sometimes. I feel too many things all at once. I love you too much, and I don't know what to do with that. My own mother thinks you're too good for me, and your friends—"
"I don't care what anyone else thinks. Because it's not true! If you think I give two shits about anyone but you and my mom, then maybe you don't even know me at all."
"Well maybe I do, Santana. Maybe I care what they think and say. About me, yeah, but mostly about you, because you're with me. Maybe I care too much about you for this. Maybe I care too much that I—that I go to the bathroom, and I don't know what I even missed, but, you—you're protecting me, and I don't want to need your protection. Maybe I'm just so afraid all the time, even when I think I'm not. It's hard for me to believe that this isn't going to hurt."
"Britt. Please." You sign your pleas desperately. You sign that you love her. You're begging, in both spoken words and sign for her to trust you, but she just shakes her head. She shakes her head, and you grab the lamppost beside you. Because you think you might crumble to the ground. She's being entirely irrational. Except she's not. She's been conditioned to believe these things. And that, that kills you. "You promised me. You promised me you'd try to trust me."
"And I've been trying. But. But I just. I just. I'm too scared, and I can't."
"That's not fair." You clench your fists at your sides. She's hurting you. She's hurting you so much, because she's hurt herself. She's hurt from something you didn't do, she's hurt from something you want to fix. She's hurt and it's ripping your fucking heart out. "I love you, I love you so much."
"I love you too. And I don't want to fight with you. I can't. Santana I can't do this tonight. I'm going upstairs." You see the tears, the tears that fall from her eyes and hit the pavement beneath her feet. You go to reach out to brush them away, because Brittany crying? It makes you wish the world would swallow you whole. You reach out to brush them, and she puts her hand up, telling you to stop. She turns to walk through the door, and when you follow, she turns back around. She turns back around, and she shakes her head again. She shakes her head, with tears streaming down her face, and you, you're powerless. "Go home, Santana. Please. Please let me have tonight to think. Please just give me a little space right now."
You freeze. It's another promise you made to her. An unspoken one, that you'd give her space when she needs, because all this is new for her. You freeze. And she leaves you. She leaves you standing outside of her door, Mr. Shapiro peering through his curtains. She leaves you, because she thinks she's not good enough. She leaves you, and you crumble. You crumble, because she's everything. She's everything and more, and you don't know how you'll ever make her see. You see the light flicker on upstairs, and you just, you know, there is nothing you can do now but go home. And there's nothing you want to do less that that. So you linger, and you hope. You linger, and you look at the light above you. You linger, and you squeeze your eyes closed, hoping, praying, that she doesn't let the rest of the world get the best of her. That once she has space and time, she'll let you back in her protective shell again. That she'll let you show her that she's worth so, so much more than she believes herself to be.