Throughout the spring and into the summer, you begin your house-hunting in earnest. It's far more exhausting than you had ever expected, finding something in your price range, finding something that suits you both, finding something that isn't going to require months worth of work. Both you and Brittany scour every real estate website there is, you sit outside in the park on Sundays with the newspaper, passing the ads back and forth. You go to open houses and showings, for more houses than you ever imagined were for sale in your neighborhood. Brittany e-mails you listings while you're at work, and Jonas jokes that he's going to make an announcement on air, if you don't find something soon. It's a lot of work, but, it's also a lot of fun. You've waited almost your whole life for this moment. You've waited to be able to have a place of your own. And you've waited, though you never knew you were waiting for it, to have someone you could share this experience with. To have Brittany.
It's the last Friday of July. You've been lucky, really, with the weather. It's been an incredibly mild summer, and it drizzles a little, as you drive home from work. You're picking up Brittany from home. She has an appointment with her neurologist. An annual visit, just, years of follow-up after her brain injury, nothing to be worried about, she promises you. But it's the first time she's ever asked you to come. You remember last year, when she'd purposely scheduled her appointment while you were at work, and then slept the whole afternoon, so you have to admit to yourself that you're a little worried. And you know she is too, despite her words to you. She's been exceptionally quiet. She's been restless in bed all week. She's been making lists, lots of them. About everything from what she wants to do for the remainder of the summer to all the things you'll have to do once you find a place you want to buy. And you hate it, because when she works herself into this frenzy, there's nothing you can do to calm her down.
Rather than send her a text that you're outside, you park across the street, and you go upstairs. You feel like you need to. You feel like you can't properly…anything, if she just comes down to the car, and you want to, you need to. You're not nervous about the appointment. You're just nervous about her. Because Brittany, the love of your life, your wife, she's her own worst enemy sometimes. And you hate that. You hate that a lot. So you go upstairs. You go into your apartment, and you find her scrubbing the kitchen sink, with her shoes on. She never wears shoes in the house. Neither of you do. It's one of her things, and you've always been respectful of that. Otis, he alerts her of your arrival, but she doesn't stop what she's doing, she hardly notices his nudge, and when you slip your sneakers off and come up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist, she jumps.
"God Santana, you scared me." She snaps, and then her shoulders slump, as she turns to face you. "I— I'm—"
"It's okay," you tell her, before she apologizes. You see it in her eyes, and you kiss her forehead and stroke her arms, her soapy gloved hands dripping on the floor. "I'm really sorry I scared you, Sweetheart."
"I'm sorry I'm being such a. Such a. A jerk."
"Hey, it's okay." You bring your right pointer to your lips, and then press the flat of your palm against your balled left hand. Promise.
"It's not, though." She shakes her head, pulling her gloves off and tossing them in the sink.
"Britt, come sit with me a minute, talk to me." You suck your lips into your mouth, you're worried about her. You hear the unshed tears in her throat, and your stomach drops at the sound. She nods, slowly, and she follows you to the couch, resting her hands on your knees.
"I. I get like this every year." Brittany bites her bottom lip, and you place your hands over hers. "Two years ago, we'd just started seeing each other, and, I don't know if you remember, but I went kind of. Kind of missing. For a few days."
"I." You think on it for a minute, and you know what she's talking about. "I guess I didn't think much of it, since we were so new. And you still returned my texts, even though we didn't see each other."
"Yeah. I really, I really cared about you, even then. So I didn't want you to think I was…not interested, but I needed my space. Last year. I just, tried really hard to not be like this, but I know you noticed. And you're just so good. Santana. You always give me space when I need it."
"I try, Honey. But, I do wish you'd let me in, let me share things like this with you. To make it easier on you."
"That's what. It's what I'm trying to do. Now. This year. You're my wife, and. And the things I'm scared of, they affect you, too."
"Tell me what it is that makes you feel so afraid. Tell me what it is, so I can make it better."
"It's." She draws in a long breath. Her eyes, those universe eyes, they're dark and stormy again. They're full of fear. Of uncertainty. Of this deep, unshakeable sadness. A sadness you swear you'll spend your whole life trying to rid her of. "When I was fourteen, the doctor started speaking to me like an adult. My mom, she. She told them I wasn't ready for it, that I— that I wasn't smart enough to understand. She didn't know, though. That I already did. That I had to get my brain checked every year. Because. Because it's always possible that. That there could be— Problems. As I get older. And every year, I just, I get so scared that this year. That…I don't know, that I, I'm going to die. Or start forgetting things. Or. I just. I forget about it most of the time. But, what would I do, if Dr. Thomas told me today that in six months—" A sob, it hiccups out of her. It ripples through her body. "That I won't. Remember you."
"Brittany. Come here." You open your arms and you pull her into them, rocking her with your body, kissing the top of her head. Just being there. These fears she has, you know they're mostly unfounded. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't done your own research about the long term effects of traumatic brain injuries. And you know, she knows they're mostly unfounded, too. But the human mind is weird. It goes to the darkest, scariest places it can find, at the drop of a hat. So they might be unfounded, but that doesn't mean they're not valid, and you hold her, you let her cry, because you're pretty sure that letting it all out, it's the best thing she can do.
"I'm being so stupid." She mumbles into your neck, once the crying stops, and she sort of just lies limp against you. Gently, you maneuver her body so she's looking at you, and you wipe away her tears with your thumbs. "It's the fastest my brain works, you know. When it's finding things to be afraid of."
"It's not stupid, Sweetheart. It's how you feel, and that's okay. But I'm here with you, always, no matter what."
"You're just always having to reassure me of stuff. I hate that." Her lower lip protrudes, and you kiss it. "I'm just having a down day."
"I know you are. Which is why, Otis and I made us big plans for tonight."
"Santana. I." She struggles a little, finding her words, and she sighs. "I think I'll be too tired to do much of anything. I haven't. I haven't really been sleeping, and all the brain stuff they make me do there."
"Oh, I know." You smile, just a little. "That's why we figured takeout, cuddling right here on this couch, and maybe a movie, if you're up to it."
"That sounds really good. It's been awhile since we've done that on a Friday night,"
"Well someone has been planning these date nights all over Philadelphia. I wonder who that might be." You tease, and she leans in to kiss you again. "Britt, it's going to be okay. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, I do, I think. I mean. I. I know you're here with me, so. That. It does make it a little bit easier."
"Partnership, Mrs. Lopez. That's what you and I do best."
"We are pretty good at it." She sniffles a little. "Let's just. Let's go, so then. Then it's over."
She holds your hand in the car, tighter than she usually does. Otis refuses to get in the back seat, instead, choosing to curl up beneath her feet. She's okay with that. She knows he's safe there, and she feels safer too, holding tightly to him. Her doctor's office isn't far, but since she told you that it's draining on her, probably more from the stress and overstimulation than anything, you drive, rather than walk. In the office, she signs in, and then she fills out new papers. Papers with her new name, papers that change her marital status. It makes her smile, and that, that you're really glad for. When she's finished, she rests her head on your shoulder, and you play with her hair, stroking it, braiding it out of her face, kissing her temple as you do. She's calm, as calm as she can be, by the time the doctor comes out and steps in front of her, alerting her of his presence. She stands up, and you follow her head, watching her interaction.
"Hi, Dr. Thomas." You hear her try not to mumble, though she struggles with that, she always does, when she speaks to anyone but you.
"Nice to see you again, Brittany." He looks down at her chart, then back up at her. He speaks at a good pace for her, he looks in her eyes. "I see you changed your last name. Do you have some news to share?"
"I. I do. This. Santana." She stumbles over her words, and you run your thumb over the inside of her wrist. "I'm sorry. This is my wife, Santana Lopez."
"It's very nice to meet you, Santana." He's warm. He smiles, and she shakes your hand. "Brittany, are you ready to come inside?"
"Yeah. Can she— Can she come with me?"
"Of course. And then she and Otis can hang out in in our private back room, while you get your MRI done."
When you get into the exam room, Brittany has to let go of your hand. But as you take your seat across from her, never tearing your eyes away from her, Otis remains close by. Otis remains, giving her a place to rest her fidgeting fingers. While she talks to Dr. Thomas, she tries to keep herself calm, so she doesn't stutter and start. She hates that, you know she does, and even with the doctor, her skin flushes, and her ears burn, whenever she repeats a word or has to stop in the middle of a sentence to gather her thoughts. But he's patient with her, and he's gentle, giving her time between each test in the series he does, checking her brain function, checking her cognitive ability. It's strange, really, for you, seeing how he charts her coordination, her fine motor skills. Because you don't think of her abilities in numbers. You don't think she lacks in anything. You don't think of her as disabled, not because of her deafness, not because of her brain injury. She's just Brittany, just the woman you love, just so incredibly special as she is.
They finish up with the tests, while you sit, quietly, watching. She's tired already, you can tell, but she does give a small smile to you, when Dr. Thomas tells her she's done great. You love this woman, really, she's something else with the way she puts on a brave face, even when you know she'd rather do anything but. Even when you know she'd rather curl into a ball and sleep for several days. Brittany, she loves her shell, but when she has to, she leaves it far behind. When she has to, she holds her head high, knowing, when it's all over, she'll have it back, and she'll have you to hold her, too. Before she goes back to have her MRI done, the doctor gives her a few minutes. The imaging, it's something she'd confessed to you days ago that she hates more than anything, because she feels trapped, and because she can't hear, she has no idea what's going on around her. So you scratch her lower back, you kiss the sensitive spot below her ear, and you promise her, you promise her, it'll all be over soon, and you and Otis, you'll be here waiting.
"It's okay, buddy." You assure Otis, when he lies his head on thigh and whimpers a little. You have her medical bracelet around your wrist, and her wedding ring on your finger, keeping them safe for her, and you rub his neck. "It's totally okay."
Brittany comes out, nearly an hour later, and you think, outside of the time she had the flu last summer, you've never seen her look so entirely wiped out. Her eyes are glassy, and she mumbles to you about how glad she is that she doesn't have to do that for another year. Stress is exhausting, and it's sucked the color out of her face. But she's okay, she's totally okay. Dr. Thomas told her that she's had no change in brain function over the past year, and when she fits herself into your arms when she come out, the heaviness you'd felt before the appointment, it's missing. She's tired, completely, but there's a relief for her, such a relief, getting that confirmation she'd needed. There's a relief, knowing at another year's mark, that her worst fears aren't coming true.
"I love you so much." She tells you in the car, once, twice, three times, and you draw the same letters onto the bare skin of her thigh, just below the hem of the running shorts she'd wore to the appointment. "I know. I know you do. Thank you."
You get back to your apartment, and Brittany gets the the shower. You get that, wanting to wash off a doctor's visit, and while she's in there, you change out of your work clothes, and you put new sheets on the bed. That's your favorite thing, when you've had a rough day, and since she's always quick to oblige that desire, you want to do the same for her. She comes out, just as you're spreading the comforter back over, and she hugs you from behind. Her chin rests on your shoulder, and her whole body seems to hum with contentment. That contentment, it seeps into you, too. It melts the tension you hadn't felt building in your muscles. This is your first time, but for Brittany, it's another year in a long line of years. It's the end of another set of stressful days, and you take both of her hands in yours. You lace your fingers together, and you just, stand there, and she leans into you, as she breathes in your ear, as she holds you, close as she can.
"Sometimes, I forget what it was like, doing things before you." She tells you. It takes you a minute to comprehend the words, because she's tired, and they're not totally clear. Once you realize, though, what she'd said, you turn in her embrace, and you kiss her, slow, full of the all the things you want her to know. You look in her universe eyes, clearing from the storm, and you smile. You smile at her, you smile for her.
"So do I." You nod, because it's true, it's so true. She shares your heart, she shares your secrets, she shares your life. "But you're stuck with me now, Sweetheart."
"And there isn't anyone else I'd ever want that more with."
You lie down with her, she lies on her side at first, she talks to you about your day at work, she talks to you about the new series of books she just signed a contract for. She talks to you about houses, about going down to Queens before baseball season is over, because she knows you're dying to see a game on your own turf. Otis gets up on the bed, and he nuzzles her, glad she's calm, glad she's safe. And then she yawns, she yawns because she's so exhausted, and she stops talking when she curls into you. You feel her breathing slow against her chest, as her cheek presses against your heart. You feel your heart swell, like it always does, with love. You think it must be so big inside of you, really, because it's always swelling, but that's okay. This feeling, you're happy with it, you'll always be. While she rests, you resume the house hunt. Zillow has become your best friend, and you scour the listings in your price range. There's nothing new, but you're still hopeful. Because this dream, this lifelong dream of yours, your wife has embraced it with you so fully, she's put aside all her hesitations about stepping out of her comfort zone, and somehow, it makes you want it even more than you ever have. It'll all be there later though, the houses, the dreams. So now, tossing your phone aside, you wrap Brittany up in your arms, you nuzzle your face into her hair, and you close your eyes too. You rest with her, because right now, it's the most important thing in the world.