After a beat, Santana let out a shaky breath. As if her anger had just poured out of her, she turned around silently, walking towards the couch before sitting down. "You lied to me," she whispered. "Over and over, you just...lied."

Brittany stayed against the wall, not daring to move. "I w-wanted to tell you. I mean...not before the review was out, but...I never thought everything would happen so fast. You were never supposed to know someone would review your restaurant."

"So that excuses everything?" Santana snapped.

"No! Of course not. I—I just meant that...I knew I loved your food, so I...I thought it would be nice to feature you in the magazine. Like a surprise...but somehow you found out a critic would come, and I...I panicked, Santana. I didn't know how to tell you, or even if I should...but you were so anxious over it, it was killing me—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Brittany," Santana sneered and rolled her eyes. "How tormenting for you."

Brittany looked down, feeling so small. "I never meant to hurt you."

Santana snorted. After a while, the room fell silent. Brittany didn't know what to say; she knew she was to blame, and Santana had every right to be mad.

"Look, I...I was going to send the review to my boss tomorrow. But...if you want Jesse St. James to cover it, I'll underst—"

"Of course I want St. James. What did you think, Brittany? That I'd come running to you all happy? That I'd think, 'Well, gee, this works for the best, now I'm guaranteed to have the spot in the magazine'? Do you believe I'm that fucking shallow?"

Brittany shook her head fervently. "I never believed th—"

Snap!

Brittany looked over to Santana, eyebrows furrowing at the sound. She noticed how she was toying with the rubber band around her wrist, something she used to calm herself down. Brittany always hated it. Santana would resort to it when she was angry or anxious, some sort of trick to associate those feelings with pain and attempt to keep them at bay. The snap of the rubber on her wrist was supposed to help her regain focus, but it was completely nonsensical to Brittany. Why would she hurt herself like that?

"You still have that thing..."

Santana didn't respond, her fingers pulling at the rubber mindlessly. After a minute, she stared at the coffee table blankly.

"You know...after we broke up," she managed to say. "I promised myself that if ever...if ever we got back together, I would always try to communicate better with you. That I'd—" she cut herself off, choking on her words.

The broken sound set Brittany into motion. She walked towards Santana and kneeled in front of her, grabbing her fidgety hands. Santana pulled back but stayed in place.

"I was wrong," Brittany said. "I was wrong to keep the truth from you, but I have to keep Susan a secret, or else the whole point of my job just goes out the window. Santana...I never once lied about the rest. When I broke up with you...when I walked away, I knew it was the best thing to do for both of us. Come on, S, you remember how it was...w-we were hurting each other so badly. But now, I—I know I want to do anything I can to be with y—"

"Stop," Santana cut her off. "You have no right to say that. Not now." Brittany felt her stomach twist when the chef grabbed her purse and got up.

She scrambled to get up as well, fearing that the woman was leaving.

"You know," Santana said, turning around. "It's funny how you used to say you couldn't stand me hurting you so much. But...twice, twice, you're the one breaking my heart."

Brittany flinched. "I'm sorry, you have to beli—"

"You know what? You were right. We haven't changed. We're not good for each other. This," she said, motioning from herself to Brittany, "is poison."

Brittany recoiled, the words cutting deep into her. "Y-you don't mean that."

Santana looked to the side, unable to bear the look on Brittany's face. Her jaw clenched as she realized what she had just implied. She knew her words were only partially true; they had matured. But somehow here they were, hurting each other all over again. The weight on her chest was unbearable; just looking at Brittany made it hard to breathe.

"Maybe I don't," she murmured. "But baby, I can't take any of this anymore. It hurts so bad, I feel like—like it's a constant battle. Like the anger, and t-the lies just overshadow the rest. I used to think it was worth it, that it didn't matter because underneath it all, we were happy. But this..." she frowned sadly. "This isn't worth it. I don't want to fight with you anymore. It's just too tiring."

Brittany stayed silent. She felt heavy and lightheaded at the same time, and her feet were refusing to budge. She wished she could move towards Santana and brush her thumb over the tear tracks on her cheeks, but she also knew she had fucked up. She'd fucked up so bad she had no right to try to calm Santana. The chef had every reason to be upset, and Brittany knew it.

When she opened her mouth but no sound came out, Santana shifted in place. "Look, I...I just need time away from...all of this. I need to focus on the restaurant, and you need to focus on...whatever it is Susan Spite does."

Taken aback by Santana's sullen tone, Brittany started panicking. She knew what "taking time" usually meant in a relationship—if that was what they had—and the idea of losing Santana now made her feel sick. "Santana—"

"Don't," the chef shook her head. "Please, Britt, just...let it go. Please."

Brittany knew what she meant by that; stubborn as they both were, it was rare for them to ever let go of an argument. The final word was something they both always fought for. It was a selfish need that Brittany knew she had to relinquish. Santana needed her to accept her decision. She looked so tired, so defeated, and it was killing Brittany that she was the cause of it.

After a beat, she conceded. "Okay," she whispered.

Santana nodded and turned around to leave, only stopping when she opened the door. "For what it's worth...I think you're an amazing writer."

Brittany let out a small whimper, watching as the woman she'd hurt shut the door behind her. She waited a minute—maybe an hour, she wasn't sure— before she walked back to the couch and slumped on it, burying her head into one of the throw pillows. After a few minutes, she felt Lord Tubbington crawling on her back, lounging on her as she groaned miserably. Somehow, she imagined he was looking down on her with contempt, ready to claw some sense into her, but he didn't say a word. Brittany would have usually asked him to move—he was no small kitten, after all—but his mass was nothing compared to the weight of her guilt. She'd started off the day with Saturday on her mind, but now it only reminded her of how badly she'd screwed up.

Brittany wasn't sure she could ever forgive herself for bringing so much disappointment into Santana's life.