Brittany
That day when I get home, I don't even bother to turn on the lights. I feel my way to my room, shedding the now tainted clothes along the way, put on my oldest most worn down pair of pajamas and collapse on my bed. My phone rings after a while, but I just ignore the buzzing emanating from my bag somewhere between the kitchen and the living room. I stare at the faded lavender wallpaper and feel my mind go blank. I can actually see the empty canvas in my mind, but I don't have anything to fill it with. I'm only aware of time passing by because of the light that starts to creep through my window. I figure it's around sunset, and I haven't moved from my spot. So I've been lying here for around 9 hours.
I don't know if I fall asleep really or if my mind just stops caring. All I know is that it was dark, and now it's light again. My phone has stopped buzzing. Good. My battery must be dead and that's the best excuse to ignore calls. I turn on my back and look up at the ceiling, counting the shadows that start forming with the light. The shadows get longer, and longer, and the only thing I do is get up once to go pee. Then I get back in my earlier position and count the shadows.
I hear a timid knock on my door and I'm tempted to ignore it, but I know it won't go away that easily. It takes me a while to get to the door because my body feels stiff, foreign. When I open the door, I turn back around without waiting to see who is there; I just go back to my room and get in bed. I hear Quinn's voice calling for me as she closes the door. I don't pretend to be asleep, but I don't turn around either. I hear her stop at my bedroom door and ask me how I'm feeling. What kind of question is that? I make no attempt to move or answer her. She starts going on about how she brought me some food and maybe I'd like to sit down and eat a small piece of the lasagna Rachel made for me. When the only thing she gets from me is silence, she announces she's gonna tidy up my kitchen and put the lasagna in the oven. I hear her move around my apartment, and she keeps on a one sided conversation with me, about how my plates are a nice shade of green, that she sees I have no more coffee so she'll get me some, that where is my broom so she can sweep but never mind cause she found it. She says Sam is stopping by in a bit after he's done shooting so that maybe then we can all sit down for dinner. I tune out her voice when Quinn starts talking about something Chris did in practice that day, and I concentrate on the peeling lavender wallpaper. When my room gets completely dark, Quinn comes in and turns on the light. I squint my eyes but I say nothing as she turns back around and leaves.
I guess Sam is done filming, because when there's a second knock on the door, I hear Quinn saying it must be Sam and that she will start heating up the lasagna. Sam is a little braver than Quinn, because he actually comes in my bedroom and sits at the foot of my bed. His hand finds my ankle and he keeps it there as he says hello. I want to jerk my foot away, but I don't think I have the strength to do it. He's silent for a while, his hand still on my ankle, and then he slowly rocks my foot back and forth as he says I have to get up now to eat, because Rachel's lasagna has four different cheeses and chard and spinach and even though there's no meat in it, he swears it's the best lasagna ever. All I want is for them to leave, but I realize they won't until they get some sort of response from me. So I sigh and say ok, and as I turn around, I see a contented smile on Sam's face. He thinks he got through to me, and I let him think that only because I need them gone. The more they try to overcompensate by being extra cheerful and talkative, the more I retreat inside myself. I walk to the kitchen slowly and sit in one of the stools. Quinn has put down plates with steaming lasagna and glasses of some sort of juice. She and Sam keep up this litany of comments about the food and all I do is sit down, stare at my plate and try to push down the food. I assume it's good, but I don't have any taste for food anymore. No taste registers in my empty canvas of a brain, but I nod in agreement when Sam asks me if I like it. When I finish eating the small plate of lasagna and I refuse a second helping, I get up from the table and go back to my bed. I can hear Sam and Quinn whispering, but I'm not even remotely interested in what they're saying. I already know it's about me. I hear the water running and plates being moved around and then they're both by my bed saying good bye and how they'll come back with some groceries for me tomorrow and that Rachel and Mercedes send their love.
When the door closes behind them, I sigh. I don't think it's relief, really, it's just that I won't be forced to hold my breath and ball up my fists anymore. I realize I'm angry, or I would be if I had the strength for it, at them for being so overly transparent in their attempts to make me feel… better? I don't think that's the right word, but I guess they think it is. Truth is, I feel nothing. I just don't have any strength in me left. And I see it has been coming on since mom showed up. I can't find words, I don't want more company. I'm glad I have a break from classes because that means I'm not forced to quit. I don't know when we start again but right now I don't care. I don't hear music in my head anymore and I don't dance in my sleep. And I don't mind.
I lose track of time and I only get up to use the toilet. One night when I went to pee, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and I hated it. I grabbed the mirror and smashed it in the shower. I felt better then, and I went back to bed. Quinn and Sam alternate to check on me. I hear them call my name when they get in and then the usual drone of their voices narrating what they're doing. How they brought me those cookies I love or that energy drink we used to drink during practice at school, that it's a shame I let the bread loaves they brought me go to waste because they know I liked them before. They don't get near my bed anymore. Sam sometimes turns on the TV and leaves it on in that channel that only airs old cartoons, but when he comes back another day and realizes the TV is on and exactly everything is the same as he left it, he turns it off and doesn't try to do it again for a while. Quinn used to leave me tea and juices by my bed at first, but now she doesn't anymore, because either she or Sam picks it up the next day and throws it away, untouched. I have now closed the door to my room so when they come in I only hear muffled sounds. They seem to respect it, because they only open it to say goodbye and close it again.
I wonder how long they're gonna keep this up. At least they haven't asked me to join them for dinner since that first night. And I know why. It's because each time after they leave I go in the kitchen and I pick some random items and flush them down the toilet so they think I ate. I have not only lost my taste for food, I've lost my appetite as well. I eat a cracker or a grape every now and then, and I drink water, but only because it hurts too much to go to the bathroom when I haven't had anything to drink for a while. I can't stand hurting, so I force myself to gulp down water. I alternate between hating myself for giving Sam a spare key to my apartment and being glad I did. Some days I want to take the key back from him and have him, and Quinn, leave me alone, but I know they will only tear down my door. Other days I'm glad I did because I sense it's become a routine for them, and they feel they're doing something good by taking care of me, or rather, thinking they are taking care of me. I don't really know if they come each day, or every other day, because time has lost all meaning to me.
I am counting the ridges on the lavender wallpaper when I hear the door to my apartment click open. After a few minutes of silence, I hear footsteps approaching my door. This is new. Usually they say hello and start doing things outside and don't disturb me until they leave. Maybe Sam has thought of something else to do today. No, this isn't Sam. Those aren't his footsteps; these are lighter, so it has to be Quinn. When my door creaks open, I am completely convinced I have lost my mind and that I'm going crazy. Because I recognize this scent. And it's not Quinn, and it's not Sam. That's Santana's scent. I would recognize that anytime, anywhere. My heart starts beating faster as I come to terms with my newfound insanity. Did my mind simply check out on me? Is this what I've come down to? Creating a new reality and immersing myself in it so much I can actually smell her perfume? The lavender wallpaper holds no answers for me, as I sense the mattress weighed down by someone next to me. I feel the body lay down behind me, I can actually feel the cool breath on my back, yet I do nothing. I close my eyes, enabling my mind to fall fully into its fantasy and I feel my heartbeat slow down again to its normal pace.
When I come to again I realize by the soft light on the wall that it's definitely morning. This is the first time in… days? weeks? months? That I've slept through an entire night without any nightmares or sudden bursts of insomnia. I instantly notice that the scent and the mass behind me haven't vanished. Could it be possible that Santana is actually here right now and not a figment of my imagination? I stretch my hand tentatively backwards until it finds its counterpart. Our fingers intertwine as they always did – practically of their own accord – and I pull the hand towards me, feeling her weight shift as she moves closer to me. I bring our hands up between my breasts and I let them rest there, where they feel at home. This is irrefutable proof that I'm not crazy as I feared, and that Santana is actually here. I look down at the chewed cuticles as her thumb creates delicate circles around my index finger. The tiny movements soothe me and I let out a sigh. I can feel her right elbow just barely touching the back of my head and so I lift my head a few inches so that she can slide her arm under it and be more comfortable. She does, and as I feel her body press against mine, my right hand finds hers and I rest the back of my hand against her palm. She clasps it firmly, but gently and I can feel tears pooling at the corners of my eyes. I let them fall without even attempting to wipe them away, because I don't want to let go of her. The tears fall silently, and I close my eyes, because I can feel my entire body mourning and rejoicing at the same time. It's mourning this love, this closeness it missed for so long and rejoicing at the touch that is so familiar but exciting and new, too. Once again, sleep pulls me in for I don't know how long.
My eyes open again to an orange light reflecting off the wallpaper. So it must be close to sunset, I gather. We are still in the same position, and I can feel dampness under my head where my tears rest. I feel lighter all of a sudden. The tears washed away something inside me, something I've been suppressing for, I don't know, since the moment I stepped off her porch all those years ago. I finally realize why I left, why I blocked her out of my life. There is only one word for it: selfish. I had a choice right then: I could choose us and our love and fight my hardest for it; or I could choose to figure out a life by myself and leave my old one behind. Back then, I thought those were my only choices, and I chose wrong. Because I didn't think I could keep her and still venture out and do what I wanted to do: travel the world dancing. So once I made that decision, I blocked all reason out and locked my heart away. I became driven and selfish and for the longest time decided that I didn't have to give her an explanation or have a final conversation. To me, how we left things was for the best, and so that's what I did. And the weird thing is I don't regret leaving. I regret the way I did it, yes, but not the rest. For so long I felt like there was no going back, there was nothing I could do or say to make things all right again, so I kept my distance and I refused to think about Santana or Lima, or anything relating to our life together. But I came back, right? On impulse, I jumped on a plane, said goodbye to everything I had worked so hard to accomplish, and came back to the States, to my hometown - to our town. I guess a part of me felt it was enough, and I needed to see if it was truly pointless or if there was some way to ask for forgiveness. That was pretty much all I felt I could ask for. But some things never change, and I know that Santana forgave me a long time ago because that's who she is – even though I didn't and I don't deserve it, at least not yet.
I get this urge inside to turn around and look at her. I am suddenly very aware that I haven't showered in I don't know how many weeks and that I'm still in the same battered pajamas I put on that day after I left Hentworth's. Very slowly as to not wake her, I shift my weight and turn around. Her big brown eyes startle me, because they're staring directly at me. The first thing I notice is the intensity of her gaze. She's searching my face for… something, I don't know what. I let go of her hands so I could turn around, but her left arm is still around my waist and she doesn't make an effort to move it, and I don't either. Then I see the bags under her eyes, and it hits me that she probably hasn't slept since she got here because she's been looking out for me. And my heart breaks all over again, because even after all this time, she's taking care of me even when she doesn't have to. I see her brow is contracted and I can read the worry in her face. But still she doesn't say a word. I feel the tears fall down my face, and I see her eyes follow their trail all the way to the pillow. Right then, something that hasn't happened at all in weeks surprises me: my stomach grumbles and I am fully aware of how hungry I am. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the sound and I see the edge of her lips twitch with the hint of a smile. I can feel my face burning up in embarrassment and all I can get out is one word, but it's enough to break this spell we're in.
"Dinner?" My voice is hoarse and my throat feels tight because I haven't used it in a long time. But the smile finally breaks as she nods and helps me sit up. My legs feel wobbly and I dash – or well, walk slowly, really – to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water and take a few deep breaths. Then I wash my hands thoroughly and let the cold water run over them until they stop shaking. When I come back out and I don't see her in my bedroom, I start to panic that maybe I did imagine it after all. But the unmistakable smell of something cooking calms me down. I walk to the kitchen and I see her cutting up something and then throwing it in a large pot over a low flame. There is a bottle of Gatorade on the table right next to a stool. I sit down and drink a sip from it slowly, as I watch Santana stir the pot and put the lid back in. She turns around, leans back on the counter and looks at me with that searching look again. I sense she's waiting for me to break the silence, and while I'm still thinking of what to say, she takes an empty glass, walks over to the fridge, fills it with ice and sets it in front of me with a smile. I can't help but smile back. After all, Gatorade always tastes better when it's ice cold. I pour half the bottle into the glass and drain it all, then fill it back. I look up to say thank you, but she has already turned her back on me and is stirring the pot again. The smell wafting from it is familiar and it makes my mouth water.
"Smells good." My voice is getting better, but it still comes out an octave lower than usual and it's barely above a whisper. Santana hears me nonetheless, turns around and chuckling tosses me a napkin. I had actually started to drool. I wipe my mouth and I see her taking something out of a bag and placing it in front of me. It's a baguette and that black olives cream her mother makes that I loved so much. She slices up the bread and spreads some cream on a slice and hands it over to me. Before she lets go of it, she looks at me intently but with a gentle expression.
"Eat slowly." I nod and I force myself to take only a small bite of the bread. I chew it probably twice as long as necessary just to show Santana that I'm following orders. She grabs another slice and spreads it with cream again and puts it in front of me. Right on time, since I eat the rest of the first one in one more bite. She dips the corner of a piece of bread in the cream and turns around to stir the pot with the bread hanging from her mouth. After a fourth piece of bread I gulp down the rest of my Gatorade and then I sit back to watch Santana cook. I guess she can sense my stare, because when she turns around after a while, she raises her eyebrows in that Santana way that says What are you looking at? but the smile on her face betrays the tough look she's trying to pull off. She turns off the stove and takes the lid off the pot. I don't think my kitchen has ever smelled this good before. She brings two spoons and places one in front of me and one across from me. Then she gets two bowls and fills them with whatever was in the pot. As she places the bowl in front of me and sits down, my smile widens. It's beef stew. I look at her with tears in my eyes. She smiles and shrugs.
"What? It's Thursday." I reach out my hand across the table and she takes it without hesitating. I clasp her hand and look deep in her eyes, trying to convey in two words a world of unsaid things.
"Thank you." I feel the wave of unsaid things she's saying back wash over me and crash around my heart. The room is buzzing with electricity and I can feel the edges of my vision trembling. Our eyes never leave each other and in those few seconds, we travel far and wide, together. And I know what she's going to say even before she does.
"Don't mention it." Our smiles feel like the same ones we gave each other countless times ten years ago. This was our routine, one of our many repeated exchanges. And it finally feels right again, so before I can stop myself, I know what comes next.
"I just did." I see a tear escape her left eye, and she wipes it away without taking her gaze off me. She takes a deep breath.
"Then don't do it again." She squeezes my hand and runs her thumb across my knuckles. Ten years ago our exchange ended in a kiss, but I can understand why it doesn't this time. That squeeze feels just as intimate though, and I can feel my heart swelling. After some time, she motions to the plate with her other hand. "Let's eat before it gets cold." I nod and reluctantly let go of her hand as I grab my spoon and dig in. It's delicious, way better than what mom used to make. I can't control the noises that escape from me with every mouthful. Santana just smiles and keeps eating, dipping her bread in the bowl as she eats. I don't know if it's intentional or mechanical, but she leaves the three slices of bread she knows I always use to mop up the last contents of my beef stew. We eat in a comfortable silence, and I am careful to eat slower than I usually would, because I know my stomach hasn't received this amount of food in a long time and I want to keep it all down. When I'm done eating, I stand up and grab my plate, ready to fill it up with more food, but Santana pulls up a hand and stops me.
"Wait before you eat again, or you might get sick." I agree and sit back down. She pushes her plate away from her and leans on her elbows while looking at me with a half-smile. Her eyes are softer this time around, and I can see her mind churning. I want to look away, to break the gaze, but I can't. I tug at my pajamas self-consciously and bite my lip. I really need a shower I think.
"I think I'm gonna take a shower." She smiles and says "ok" before grabbing the plates and putting them in the sink. I can't stand up, though. I know it's stupid, but I just have to ask her. "Will you stay while I shower?" She turns around in a flash, dropping the plates.
"Of course, I'll be here when you get out." She motions around the apartment. "Fair warning though, I might clean."
I chuckle and she smiles at me. I grab a towel from my linen closet and go to my bathroom. I take my dirty clothes off and leave them on a pile in the floor as I turn the faucet on to leave it warming before I step in the shower. The moment I put a foot in the shower, I feel a piercing pain shoot through my foot all the way to my spine. I let out a cry as I look down at the mirror shard lodged in my foot. I hear Santana running into the bathroom and holding me from behind as I try to bobble in place, holding my right foot up. She helps me back to the edge of my bed and kneels in front of me to look at my foot.
"Shit, ok, just breathe Britt, relax, I'm gonna pull it out ok? Where's the alcohol?" I point in the direction of the bathroom and mutter something about under the sink. "Ok, can you hold your foot up for me while I go get it?" I nod and hold my leg up high as she dashes into the bathroom, closes the faucet and comes back with alcohol and some gauze. She kneels again and lets my foot rest on her leg as she dabs alcohol around my wound. Tears are running down my face but I'm biting my lip, trying to refrain myself from crying in pain because I know it will only make her nervous. "Here we go Britt, it's not that deep, I'm just gonna apply some pressure until it stops bleeding." She discards the glass shard into a wastebasket and gently keeps the alcohol-soaked gauze pressed against the gash. After a while, it stops stinging and I start breathing normally. Only now do I finally realize that I'm totally naked. My arms immediately dart up to cover my breasts and I press my legs together. Santana looks up at me and furrows her brow in confusion. After a second, her face relaxes and she exhales. She stares right at me and I have to strain to hear her voice, because it's barely a whisper. "Britt, it's me. It's ok." I feel the color rushing up my cheeks as I sense the hurt in her voice. She turns her attention back to my foot, where she lifts the gauze and looks at the wound for a second before nodding and throwing the gauze away.
"It stopped bleeding, but after you shower I'm gonna bandage it. Can you stand?" She stands up and offers me a hand. I take it as I put all my weight on my left leg and I gingerly try to put my right foot on the floor. It's useless, the second it hits the ground, I feel the pain shooting up my leg again. I let out a whimper and she holds me as I hop on one foot, shaking my head. "I figured, ok, I'm gonna help you get in the shower alright? And I'll stay on the other side of the curtain just to make sure you won't fall." I suddenly remember why I cut my foot, so before we start going to the bathroom, I find my voice.
"Wait, um, my bathroom mirror is shattered in the shower, that's how I cut myself." I see the confusion in her eyes, the unasked question Why was your bathroom mirror shattered in the shower? But instead of asking it, she helps me sit back down.
"Hold on then, I'll go clean it up so that you don't cut yourself again."
After she cleans the remains of my bathroom mirror, she helps me get in the shower and stands firmly just out of reach while I let the warm water wash away all the grime from my body. I try to put some weight on my right foot, but it's no use. I wiggle my toes slowly but they feel stiff. Every time I lose my balance I feel her hand shoot into the shower to grab my arm. When I'm done and I pull the curtain, she's waiting there with my towel spread in front of her. I take it and wrap it around me, before I let her help me out and hobble to my bed. I don't know if it's the loss of blood, the injury, or the long overdue shower, but my energy is drained. So instead of drying myself up and putting on clean clothes, I climb deeper into my bed still wrapped in my damp towel and doze off.
When I wake again, I don't know how long I've been sleeping, but I can hear Santana's voice from the living room.
"Hey Q, how is Sophie? … Aww really? That's so cute, I hope you took pictures of them … No, I don't know how long Q, but I figure a couple more days … Thanks, I will. Tell Sophia I love her, and I'll talk to her tomorrow … Ok, bye."
I close my eyes as she walks back in the bedroom so she doesn't know that I heard her. She sits on the bed next to me and brushes my hair out of my face with her hand. I turn around and open my eyes to see her smiling at me, more relaxed than she was yesterday, but still looking tired.
"Hey… how's your foot?"
I wiggle my toes, glad to notice that it doesn't hurt as much.
"It feels better, thanks."
"You should get dressed and let me hang that towel. Here, let me help you up." She offers me a hand and I stand up. This time, I can put both my feet on the floor, but I still can't put all my weight on my right foot. I put on sweats and Santana helps me out to the couch, explaining that she's gonna change the sheets. I turn on the tv and after a while, Santana comes with a sandwich and a bottle of water and sits next to me. I nibble the sandwich as we watch some old movie. Out of the corner of my eye I see Santana's eyelids droop and her head jerking back constantly to stop herself from falling asleep. I put down my plate and turn around so that I'm facing her and take her hands in mine.
"San, how long has it been since you've slept?" Her eyes dart everywhere but she can't meet my gaze.
"Um, I dunno, a day or two." She bites her lip and looks at our hands. I squeeze her hands and force her to look up at me.
"You need to rest, too. I'm – " I want to say fine, but I know that's not true and I can't lie to her. So I shrug and say "I'm better. You can stop looking out for me for the night and sleep."
She nods and in an automatic move, I shuffle back and open my arms and she falls into them. We snuggle closer and get comfortable in the couch and I hear a sigh coming from her lips as she closes her eyes. It doesn't take more than a few minutes until I can feel her breathing even out. I finish watching the movie and I turn on old cartoons. I am suddenly very much awake and I can't stop caressing down Santana's side as she sleeps. Her face looks relaxed, and completely trusting. My heart aches at all the things I know we need to talk about, and a part of me wants to wake her up so we can get this done, but another part of me knows she has earned her rest after taking care of me these past few days, and the least I can do is take care of her for the next few hours.
I don't know when exactly I fall asleep, but when I wake up, the light is filtering in. I look down and Santana is still sleeping, but she stirs when she feels me move. Her grip around my waist tightens as she starts to wake and she takes a breath in as she opens her eyes, her gaze instantly finding mine.
"Good morning." I smile at her sleepy eyes.
"Mornin'." Her raspy voice brings back a million memories of mornings waking up together.
"Pancakes?" I wiggle my eyebrows as she laughs, that silent laugh that I always felt proud I elicited from her.
"Perfect."