Spring comes. Finally. Though winter was, it was full of some of the best days of your whole entire life, you're ready, really, for the end of the cold and the dark and the snow. You're ready to be outside. To paint in the park. To just, go to all your spots with Santana. Because you love her, you love her, but. Being shut up in the house constantly, even together, loses a little of its luster after you hardly see the light of day for so long. But. But the snow, it's melted, the grass is green, and, there are flowers, flowers everywhere. She's been anxious for it too, you think, she's got all these things she wants to do, and, her excitement. It's your favorite. When she rambles on, a mix of spoken word and sign and crinkle eyed smiling, it's your very favorite. You picture little Santana, and, you still love that there's so much of her that your Santana has held onto.
It's the first weekend of May, and you're getting ready for the strawberry festival in Peddler's Village. For all the long cold winter days you'd had, you're having just as many gorgeous spring ones, and Santana, Santana she. She wants to take the most advantage of them. She's already pulled out her shorts and tank tops, and, you're definitely not complaining about that. She's beautiful, beautiful, like, you're-still sort-of-convinced-she's-unreal kind of beautiful. And you stand at the mirror, sort of trying to pull your hair back, but— but Santana, she's pulling dark denim shorts up her legs, slowly, so slowly that you swear, she does it on purpose. You swear, she likes to make you squirm, all tan legs and toned stomach, in, in half a pair of shorts and a black bra. And then she smirks. She smirks, and you roll your eyes back at her in the mirror. Because your wife, you love her, and she's gorgeous, but, she's also a little bit of a jerk. Particularly when you're both getting ready in the mornings, particularly when she's intentionally trying to draw it out, because— Okay, well, maybe she's not really a jerk then. Because, because you only have these get ready mornings twice a week, and, actually, it's sort of sweet.
"Are you going dressed like that, then?" You purse your lips, when she just stands there. And she waits. She waits for you to turn around. Because maybe, maybe, other people can read lips or sign in the mirror— you don't know, you don't know other deaf people, really— but you can't process it fast enough, and. And Santana. She just. She. She always tries to make it easiest for you to understand what she's saying.
I don't think it's that kind of festival. She slips her arms around your waist, and you laugh. You don't know why you do. But. Her presence still makes you giggly sometimes, it fills your heart up with too much energy, and that's the only way you can get it out. Mardi Gras next year?
"That seems terrible." You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, and then she laughs. She laughs because you know it does for her too. Because the way you dislike crowds and shoving, she dislikes excess, and, and people, just, wasting things.
Yes it does. She kisses your lips, she plays with you hair, and. You trail your hands over the warm skin of her sides. I think I could manage to put a shirt on so we can stick to this. As long as you promise to take it off later.
"Oh, is that the deal then?" Your eyebrow shoots up, but, you can't hide the way the corners of your mouth twitch. She strokes her thumb over your cheek, and you smile, you smile fully. "I think I can agree to those terms."
I figured you would. Santana, she slips out of your arms again, and she pulls her shirt over her head, wiggling a little bit. Solely for your benefit. And you eat it up, you always do.
It's a long drive to the festival, but, you really love those drives with her. It's like, when you met her, this whole other world opened up to you, and, even nearly two years later, you're still absorbing it all. You're still, drinking in your fill of the things she offers you. It's. It's just, you don't have the words, really, but, she gets it. And she enjoys it too. Taking you places you've never been. You catch her watching you out of the corner of her eye as you leave the city. You catch her watching Otis look out the window. You catch her dimpled smile. Her crinkled eyes. And she doesn't have to write the words on your thigh for you to understand it. You know, you know, you know. Inside your heart. What she's saying with her face. I love making you happy. And probably. Because she's her. Maybe a Sweetheart. For good measure.
Santana, she's very cute about things like this. You noticed this, almost immediately after you'd met, but it's only been amplified since then. Your wife, your beautiful, wonderful wife, has on a red shirt. And you know, though no one else would guess, that it's because of the strawberries. She likes themes, and matching actually— which explains yours— she likes sentimental things, like funnel cake at festivals and saving ticket stubs and coasters in a shoe box. You'd found it, not long after she'd moved in with you, her box. And your girl, she'd ducked her head sheepishly. But, it's the most endearing thing you've ever seen. Her excitement, it makes you excited too. It makes you want to push yourself outside of your comfort zone, and the way you've grown, the way you hide from the world less, it's the greatest gift she could have ever given to you.
The festival, it's far more crowded than either of you had expected, really, even so early in the day. It takes awhile for her to find parking. And then, when you get out, Santana and Otis, they flank you. In crowds, Santana doesn't just hold your hand. She wraps an arm around your waist. She pulls you into her. She tickles your side with her fingertips. She reminds you, she reminds you always, that she's there. She's warm from the spring sun against you. You breathe her in. You wrap your arm around her waist too. You've been married four months, but still, still, this feeling, her as your wife, her, leading you under a tent to look at pints of strawberries to take home, it sends chills down your spine.
"These look really, really good." You tell her, as you look through the brightest red berries you've ever seen. "I think we should get a lot. We could freeze them too. Use them for smoothies for you to take to work."
You're going to get up even earlier and make smoothies now? She purses her lips, and you know, it's to hide the hint of a smile. Taking care of her, in those little ways you do, it will never not be special. You're sure of that. You're just, you're truly a nurturer. And, you guess having someone who lets you just, who lets you exercise that need, it fulfills a different part of you.
"Maybe." You shrug, grinning, and she kisses you over the table.
I was actually hoping maybe you wanted to teach me how to make a strawberry pie.
"You want to learn that?"
Yeah, I think I do. I mean, you'd be teaching me, which is always a plus. And I'd like to be able to cook more things anyway, since you're the kitchen wizard.
"Hardly." You giggle a little, the tips of your ears burning. "So you want to go from being able to cook grilled cheese to baking pies?"
Hey, lies, I know how to make more than just grilled cheese.
"Okay, fair. You can also make macaroni and cheese."
And waffles. You know I make the best waffles.
"I do, actually. That's why I married you. I wanted to be guaranteed Santana Lopez waffles every Saturday morning for the rest of my life. You've yet to disappoint." You love to tease her about those waffles. Because, they really are delicious, but, the way she defends them, it's really cute. She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts a little, but you don't. You don't let her stay that way. You uncross them, and you take her hands. You squeeze them, and you rub your thumbs over her wrist bones. "You're also very cute. And I'll teach you to make all the strawberry pie you want."
You eat strawberries in more ways that you could ever imagine. Strawberry ice cream, strawberry shortcake, strawberry jam, strawberry fritters, chocolate covered strawberries. You're not actually sure that's a requirement, to try everything, but Santana, she's insistent upon it, and you share each paper plate with her. You kiss powdered sugar off her nose. You kiss her red-stained lips. You feed Otis fresh berries beneath the picnic table. When you're done, you have to walk some of the food off. When you're done, you go to look at the work of some of the artists who've set up booths. Because you paint, yourself. But. You're also completely fascinated by the work other people do. Santana, she admires the paintings with you. She admires the beadwork with you, and, though you've both bought each other jewelry before, rings included, the way she beams at you when you slip the glass bead bracelet she'd been admiring onto her wrist. It just. Makes your heart flutter in all kinds of ways.
It's only mid-afternoon when you head back to the city. You're glad you came early, because the crowds, they just, sort of become unbearable as the day progresses. And you're both happy to go, really. On the way home, Otis sleeps in the backseat, his head against the window, tired from all the activity you've been doing lately, since you'd really shut yourself in for the winter. You're a little tired too, but you won't sleep. Not in the car. You really enjoy your road trips with Santana. After your day, you have enough strawberries to feed a large family packed in your trunk— and you know Santana, she's so good, she'll bring some to Mr. Shapiro later on— and you'd bought four different flavors of vinegar and a pretty new wooden salad bowl. Your cheeks, they're red from the sun, but you're content. Really content. You love the springtime. And most importantly, you love your wife, and spending whole days with her. Something you tell her with a kiss to the inside of her palm. Something she replies to with a quick glance and a crinkle-eyed smile.
Parking is harder than usual to find, a testament, you figure, to everyone being out doing warm weather things. Santana, she double-parks in front. So you can bring things upstairs, and then, look again. You get back in the car. Because, you figure, a walk home, and maybe some dinner will be nice, since. Since she says she's not all full of strawberries, and you're hungry for actual food. You're walking, hand in hand, after agreeing on burgers. Walnut Street is busy, kids on scooters. Other couples, swinging their hands, just like you are. But it's a good busy, not an overwhelming busy, and you watch the people, you think how much you like to paint things like this. You're distracted, and then, suddenly. Santana, she just stops, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Otis turns, and gives her a sort of side eye. She looks incredibly excited, like she might start hopping, and she steps in front of you, grabbing your other hand.
Britt, do you wanna go in and look? Just for fun?
"What? Go in where?" Your brow furrows. You look around, and. She points to the sign reading Open House.
I mean, that's got to be a million-dollar townhouse, but, we could just go see it. I mean, you know, if you're not really starving for dinner, right this minute.
"Yeah, of course, if you want to go in, let's go in." You nod. Her excitement about real estate, you've seen it before, but. That's the beautiful thing about Santana Lopez. You just. You still learn new things. Nearly every day.
Bringing Otis in, you're nervous. You hate that you get this way, but, you don't handle it well when you have to explain yourself. You stammer, and, people have a hard enough time understanding you anyway. But Santana, she's good. She's so much better than she even knows. Rarely, rarely, does she speak for you. She doesn't steal away your voice, just because it takes you longer to process. When she knows though. When she knows you're uncomfortable, she looks to you for permission to speak on your behalf. She waits for your nod. She signs the whole exchange for you, in case the discussion moves too quickly. And, it makes you love her more. Without fail. She does that with the broker. She smiles at you the whole time, and you think about things. You think about a lot of things, watching her.
Santana talks to the broker for a few minutes. Then you walk through the place. You watch as your wife excitedly points out granite countertops and walk-in closets, and the little outside patio that she stands on for a good five minutes. It's beautiful. Really. You know nothing about real estate, but you can definitely enjoy the view of the park and the state of the art kitchen. You know it's mega-expensive. Like, more than Santana had even estimated it at. But still. It's fun to look. Especially when you remember Santana's beach house stories. It shouldn't surprise you, really, that she has an interest in this, in looking at big homes. And you feel a new sort of fluttering in your heart. When you realize. You realize that now when she pictures her imaginary castles, she pictures them with you. It hits you, almost immediately, and, alone in the big master bathroom, you just. You pull her to you, and you give her a quick, soft kiss.
What was that for? She asks, smiling. Smiling hard.
"Do I need a reason to kiss my wife?" You shrug. But you think, you think, she sees it in your eyes. Her ability to read you, it's surreal.
You don't. And I definitely love when you do.
You finish looking at the place. You're making your own castles, maybe. And you both wave at the realtor as you leave. It's too big. It's too expensive. This place. But. Santana, she has wheels turning in her brain, you can tell even without looking at her. You can tell, simply by the way she holds your hand. It makes you anxious. A little. Not in a bad way, though. Just. In a desperate-to-sit-down-and-know-what-she's-thinking-about kind of way. Because you have a feeling, a big feeling, that the conversation you'll have might just be one of those ones that— that alters your lives again. In a very big way.
Once you're seated at your table outside, Santana orders two glasses of Chardonnay right away. You settle Otis under the table, filling his water bowl for him, and scratching behind his ears. When you lift your head back up, those fire eyes, they're on you. She's squinting, a little, in the sinking sun. But. They're burning with all she has to say. They're burning into you. In the center of the table, you find her hand, and you cover it with both of yours. It makes her smile. It always does, something about the security of it, you think, and she takes her other and places it into the pile.
Hi, Sweetheart. The corners of her mouth, they turn up. It's your thing, saying hi to each other, even when you've been together all day, and you tickle your fingers where they rest on her wrist. Did you have a nice day?
"I did. I'm glad we went to the festival. And. And that open house, too…"
It was a really nice place. I, Britt, I've been kind of starting to think about some things. Well, no, actually. I've always been thinking about these things. But now I've been thinking about them more seriously. Stop me if I start talking too fast, okay?
"Of course."
I just, I know that place was really big and really expensive, but I saw the sign, and I thought maybe it would be a starting point for us to, to talk about these things. She pauses. She looks into your eyes. She— she's reading you. And she waits, she waits for you to nod before she continues. When I was six, I started saving change I found on the street, on the subway floor. The silver money, I would use it to buy presents for my mom, on her birthday, on Christmas, on Mother's Day. You know, just, little knick-knacks. You've probably seen that little glass heart that's on the kitchen windowsill at her house. I paid three dollars and twenty-five cents for it, all in change.
"I have seen it." You blink your eyes a lot. Because, the little Santana stories, the ones about her and her mom, they give you a lump in your throat, every time. Because maybe they sound sad. But they're magic, especially to her. And when she shares them, she's entirely overcome with gratitude and awe, always.
Anyway, that's totally not even the point of this story. The point is, I spent all the silver money, but I kept the pennies, because I knew you needed a lot of them to add up to anything. I saved them in an empty soda bottle and I kept it under my covers with me at night, until after I graduated from college, and by that point I had three-thousand-seventy-six pennies. That's what I opened my savings account with, with thirty dollars and seventy-six cents. But, I always knew, even as a kid, that the thing I was saving for was a house of my very own. One that no one could ever kick me out of, one that my Mama could come live in, if she wanted to.
"Santana." You feel the urge to reach up and touch her cheek. When she looks so earnest like that, all you want to do is wrap her in your arms, all you want to do is make all of her dreams come true.
I've been saving and saving. And since I moved in with you, I've been saving even more. That, this, this dream that I've had my whole life to have a place that was really, truly mine, it hasn't died, I've kept it in my sight, always. Except, now that I have you, I want it to be a place that's really truly both of ours. I love our apartment, and I know it'll be a huge thing, finding something we like, and that we can afford. And then, it'll be an adjustment when we do. But, I've been thinking about this for twenty-three years, and now, I'm just, thinking about it in a whole new way.
"Honey. Why didn't you tell me about it sooner?"
I don't know. I mean, I guess a felt kind of ridiculous at first, because who's been saving for a house since they were six? And I know you're really comfortable where we are. Plus, I'm a little weird about money. I mean, we've been living together for over a year, and married for months. I've been putting off combining our accounts, but it's not because—"
"Wait, sorry. Can you just slow down a tiny bit?" You ask her, and when she looks down, you stroke her cheek to bring her back up. You'd seen everything she said, but, you can tell the direction she's headed in, her words starting to slur together as she gets anxious. And you want to calm her, you want to understand all of what she's saying. Because it's important. "There is nothing in any of this you need to second guess yourself about. It's not silly, because having a place to live is something you worried about growing up. And the same with money, I understand why you're cautious with it. I'm happy to do all that married people banking stuff when or if it's something you want to do, but we're managing just fine the way we have been."
I love you. Her face, it softens. The softest kind of soft. The way she gets when you're in bed together, and. You blush. You blush because when she looks at you that way, it feels so, so intimate. Like it shouldn't even be allowed in a public place. And her eyes crinkle. Because she knows, she knows. She knows what she does to you. She doesn't do it purposely. She's just, her, but she knows. She still knows that she burns you deep into your heart. She burns you, all the way to your toes. With one single look.
"I love you, too." You wonder, sometimes, what you sound like out loud. You wonder if she hears your voice, soft as your face. More like brushing kisses and fluttery eyelashes, even, than words. Maybe that's unreasonably romantic. Maybe that's old-silent-movie-type thoughts. But. That's what you imagine, in your head, that you sound like, sometimes. And you wonder, you wonder if those emotions translate for her.
Okay, so. She lifts her chin high. You see. She's trying to collect herself. You like lists, you like order. And Santana, when she's making big decisions, she likes to keep her emotions in check. Sorry, I'm just getting all…I don't know. What I'm saying is, I do want to, Britt. I want to do that grown-up married people banking stuff with you. You're my wife, there's no one else in the world that I trust like I trust you— my mother aside— and, I want to buy a house with you, if that's something you want to do with me too. I mean, not that big expensive place we saw today, but, maybe something still here in Rittenhouse—
"You're talking fast again." You lean over, and you kiss her lips. You run your hands down her arms, you watch her relax. "But I do want that, Santana. I never. I didn't. I just, it wasn't my dream, ever. To own a house. I figured I'd live in our apartment for as long as Mrs. Webster would let me. Maybe forever. With you though, things I never imagined feel like they could have been my dream all along. With you, I'd really like to buy a house. One that's all ours. One that you've been saving for since you were six, and one that puts the money in my savings account, that I've been putting there just because, to— to the best kind of use."
Really?
"Yeah, really." You find yourself reaching up to wipe tears from your face. You don't know why, fully. Maybe it's the image you can't get out of your head. The image of your wife as a little girl. Saving up pennies in an empty bottle. Counting them. Waiting, waiting, until she had enough money to buy her very own house. Or maybe, maybe, it's the image of the future. You and her and— and every opportunity, every dream, just, open there, for the taking. For you and Santana, to take on, together.