Chapter 4

A/N: Another long one, I hope you enjoy it :)

September 2024 – New York, New York

"Hi there," Dr. Broffman greeted as she held her office door open for her client. "Welcome back."

"Hey doc." Santana returned, walking past the other woman to make the familiar two-step between the coffee table and the couch to her seat.

"How are things since we last spoke?" The doctor asked, walking to her desk to grab her tea.

"Pretty good. My wife and I celebrated our anniversary over the weekend."

"That's right, I remember you mentioning that it was coming up soon!" she recalled. Congratulations!"

"Thanks," Santana smirked.

"How'd you celebrate?" Dr. Broffman smoothed out the back of her skirt before sitting in her leather chair.

"We got a babysitter and spent the night in a hotel room, drinking wine, ordering room service, and just…talking. It was nice, actually. We, uh," she hesitated. "God, we…sound like my parents."

Dr. Broffman choked on her tea at the comparison. "Mmm-mmm," she cleared her throat, composing herself. "Like your parents?"

"Yeah, I mean…we're not teenagers anymore, I know, but 31 is still relatively young. I guess I hadn't realized how long it'd been since we had a chance to get away and just be us, you know? These last few years have been…insane," she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "We got married, got pregnant pretty soon after that, the firm assigned me to the team representing one of our biggest clients, her business took off, the twins are absolute destroyers right now, and…now that I think about it, I'm honestly surprised I even have time to come here every week…"

"Santana," she interrupts. "Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

She nodded, following the doctor's instructions.

"Now, I understand those things are sources of stress for you. And while we can absolutely address them piece by piece," she crossed her legs as she leaned back in her chair. "I think first exploring your feelings about your alone time with your wife may be helpful."

Santana let out another deep breath as she nodded.

"What was the night like?"

"Well," Santana smirked. "If you insist, we uh…"

"While intimacy is a good sign," Dr. Broffman interrupted. "That's not what I had in mind. I apologize, I should've been clearer. What did you and your wife talk about?"

"Oh," Santana noticed the older woman's flushed face as she shifted in her seat. "The kids mostly. And how lucky we are to be where we are. And how much we love each other."

"How did that conversation make you feel?"

"Honestly?" She dropped her eyes to where her hands sat clasped in her lap. "Guilty."

"Guilty?"

"I mean, she's right." She shrugged a shoulder, her eyes still fixated on her hands. "We're so, so lucky to have the life we do. To have two beautiful children. I'm lucky to be with a woman who is…" she lifted her head, as if the words she was looking for were written on the ceiling. "Everything I wanted. And I love her so much, doc. She's an amazing mom, and she still puts up with me. But, after we'd…settled for the night, she fell asleep right away—she's always been able to do that – but I was still awake, just lying there thinking about…Do you remember that rope-harness situation I told you about a few weeks ago?"

"I do," she nodded. "Go on."

"Well, I don't know how," she hesitated. "But that night…it…it felt like it got…tighter."

She uncrossed her legs as she leaned forward in her chair. "Tighter?"

"Tighter."

"What do you think would…loosen it, so to speak?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here."

"Hmmm," the doctor let out a loud breath as she shifted in her seat. She lifted her glasses over her hair as she crossed her legs. Santana watched as her foot bounced where it dangled over her knee.

"Santana, I'm going to ask you a question. And I want to be careful not to," she paused, "imply…anything…about your character. And I want to be absolutely clear that I will not judge you for anything that you confide to me in here."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality, I know."

Dr. Broffman uncrossed her legs and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. She watched her client toy with her wedding band. "Are you having an affair?"

Santana let out a small laugh, smirking to herself as she rotated her band. "No."

"Do you see why I may be inclined to ask that?"

"Not really," she let out a sigh. "I mean, I'm telling you about how much I love her and how I feel guilty for…"

"That. That's what it is," Dr. Broffman pointed to her client, interrupting her. "The guilt. That's what made me ask. You love your wife and your family and your career, and I believe you! Yet, there's something in you that you feel guilty about feeling. In our first session together, I asked you about your life choices. Your personal 'A's' and 'B's,' if you recall."

Santana nodded.

"You said that you were happy. And I accepted that answer at the time, but," she shifted in her seat. "If I can be candid, as I reflect over our time here, revisiting my session notes, I'm wondering if I asked the wrong question that first day."

Santana waited for her doctor to continue.

"I…remember an old survey some Cornell economists conducted…decades ago. The survey essentially asked people if they were happy with their choices. The respondents' answers were overwhelmingly positive. However," she paused. "When asked to rate on a scale of 1 to 10 how confident they were that their lives would be worse if they had chosen an alternative path, the most popular rating was 2. In other words, people were happy with the color of their grass, but they were only about 20% confident that their grass was actually greener than whatever was on the other side of their proverbial fence."

Santana narrowed her eyes.

"I know, 'why am I telling you this?'" she took the question right out of her client's mouth. "Well…you knowyour 'A' is good. I'm not sensing any doubt about that. But," she shifted again to cross her legs, "I think you're wondering if your 'A' is actually better than your 'B' might have been. And I think you feel guilting for wondering. Am I incorrect?"

"…," Santana opened her mouth unsure of how to respond. She let out a deep breath instead, dropping her eyes back down to her hands. "You're good. I, uh…never thought about it that way."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I…don't know. I need more time to sit with that."

Dr. Broffman nodded, "Understandable. While you're sitting with that, can we follow up on something we talked about in the last session?"

"What is it?"

She uncrossed her legs as she leaned forward to grab the folder on the coffee table in front of her. She opened it and pulled her glasses back down over her eyes. "Let me see…ah, yes. Did you take your mother's advice? About the living situation? She wanted you to call a friend?"

"Oh yeah…no, I didn't want to do that. But here's the thing about Maribel Lopez," she smiled to herself as she remembered her mother. "It didn't matter how much I complained or insisted that something wouldn't work out or worse…turn into a disaster. None of that mattered because…if Maribel Lopez wanted something done," she shrugged, "you did it."

July 2016 – New York, New York

"It goes one-by-one, even two-by-two, everybody on the floor, let me show you how we do!" Quinn panted along with the music playing in her earbuds as she sprinted on her stationary bike in the den.

"Let's go, dip it low, then you bring it up slow, wind it up one time, wind it back once more!" She stood up out of the saddle and leaned over the handlebars, trying her best to pedal with Rihanna's tempo.

"Come, run, run, run, run! Everybody move, run!"

She fell back into the saddle, exhausted after a few more rotations.

"Who the hell is…," she said to herself. She pulled her earbuds out, just like the sound of banging on her door pulled her out of her zone. She hopped off the bike and grabbed her water bottle from where it sat in the bike's holder. She walked through the living room to the kitchen and threw her phone and earbuds on the island countertop, exchanging them for her towel. She wiped her face as she walked down her narrow hall to her door. She stood up on her toes to get a better look through the peephole. She lowered herself and leaned over to check herself in the little mirror hanging on the wall. She tightened her high pony and rolled her eyes as she opened the door.

"I didn't buzz you in," she shook her head. "How'd you get up here?"

"Some guy coming out of the building, distracted by all of this," Santana gestured to her cropped blue dress pants, her more modest black heels, and her crisp white blouse. "He held the door open for me. I walked right in," she shrugged as she walked through the doorway past Quinn and into the apartment.

"Come in, Santana, please," she mumbled to herself. "Um, I know it was a while ago, but I'm pretty sure you said you wouldn'tshow up to my place with a U-Haul," she said as she followed Santana down the narrow hall.

"I'm only here for orientation…and because my mom threatened to go all Lima Heights on me if I didn't consider rooming with you," she explained as she looked at the art hanging on the hallway walls. "So here I am, 'considering it'," she said, making air quotes with her fingers. "There's no U-Haul."

Santana stopped in her tracks as she walked into the kitchen. She took in the detail of the space. She walked around the island, noticing that the colors of the countertops matched the tile backsplash around the stove and sink – a pale green. She noticed the stainless-steel appliances, the real gas stove, the hardwood floors. From the open concept of the kitchen, she could see past the living room and into the den where natural light flooded the room over what looked like an Ikea-staged arrangement of furniture and plants.

"Holy shit, Quinn," she said, taking a seat on the grey couch in the living room. She ran her hand over the suede seat as she sat her purse down next to her. "Whether I wanted to stay here or not, I definitelycan't afford half of whatever this place costs. How can youafford this by yourself? Ohhhh," she nodded to herself. "I get it."

"Get what?" Quinn asked.

"You've got some old guy paying your rent in exchange for, I don't know, pictures of your feet or whatever. Makes sense. Smart, actually," she leaned back and crossed her legs.

"That's disgusting," she shook her head. "No. According to my mother, Russell always felt guilty about kicking me out when I was pregnant. And apparently, he brags about 'raising a Yale grad'," she rolled her eyes, quoting her mother quoting her father. "So, instead of actually talking to his daughter and, you know, actually apologizing, he gave me this apartment. Part guilt. Part gift," she shrugged.

"Wait, you own this place?"

Quinn shook her head as she pulled out a seat from the island and sat down. "But I will when he dies."

"Ha! Sorry. So, you've been given this amazing apartment…and you've got it all to yourself. Why in the world would you wanna share it?"

Quinn hesitated, taking another drink from her water bottle. "I don't know, I…figured it might not be the worstidea to have another person around. You know, someone to…have my back. I mean, my mom's right. When HarperCollins offered me the Assistant to the Assistant Editor position for the young adult division, I took it before I had a chance to think about the logistics. It's an amazing opportunity, don't get me wrong, but I've never lived in the city," she rambled. "And alone? It…freaks my mom out. She says I could use a friend who's…'been around the block' or whatever."

Santana cocked her head toward the other girl, her brow raised. "You had your mom call my mom because you're…too afraid to live in the city alone?"

"No. Your mom called my mom because she's worried Kurt and Rachel won't take you back in to live on their couch. Did you really go through all their stuff?"

Santana dropped her eyes to the floor as she crossed her arms over her chest. She took in a deep breath as she looked into the den, the sound of an ambulance drawing her eyes to the window. "Let's say I did want to move in," she started. "I…honestly cannot afford half of however much this is. Most of the money my parents gave me for school got spent at CUNY, and I used what was left of that to buy some things that apparentlycan only be returned for 'store credit.' All I have now is what I'm borrowing for Columbia."

"Well, my dad pays the mortgage and the taxes. It's a big write-off for him apparently—something about carrying forward losses or something, I don't know. And I pay for utilities and wi-fi. We could go half on those things? That's fair, right? If you wanted to move in, I mean."

"I don't know…I really don't wanna be a mooch…"

"Oooooh you could do the dishes!"

"Absolutely not," Santana shook her head. "My abuela would disown me twice if she could."

"I don't want a maid, Santana. It's just that the dishwasher gets used so often that it is the utility bill. The Roomba takes care of the floor. I'll clean my room, obviously. You'd clean yours. We'll share the bathroom responsibilities. I'll take care of the kitchen counters and whatever else. You could sometimes do the dishes…which would basically cut the utilities in half. Think of it as us…helping each other out."

Santana walked around the island where Quinn sat. She ran her hands along the countertops as she gave the kitchen another walkthrough. She stopped to look out the window above the sink. "Can I use the Peloton?"

"We can talk about it."

"You've always been able to play hardball, Q," she said as she turned around and extended her hand toward her new roommate. "Deal."

September 2024

"Quinn sounds like quite the friend for taking you in. And that apartment sounds gorgeous," Dr. Broffman added.

"Oh, it was absurd how beautiful it was," Santana leaned forward on the couch for emphasis. "But like she said," she shrugged, "We helped each other out."

"How so?"

"Let me put it this way," she paused. "I don't think either one of us could've imagined what we were signing up for. We tried to stay out of each other's way at first, but…uh, when two people live together – especially two people who've known each other since they were preteens – eventually someone gets into someone else's business, and…let me tell you: once you decide to get into someone's business, you'd better be ready for whatever you find."

October 2016

"We need to have a talk," Quinn said as she leaned against her roommate's doorframe.

Santana sighed, annoyed at the interruption. "Do we really?" She asked, not looking up from her textbook.

"Yes," Quinn crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

"If it's about your dwindling stash of super jumbo tampons, I already told you: those are for people with wide-set vaginas. You know, people who've had babies. I didn't touch 'em," Santana pivoted in her seat to switch her fixation to one of the several open textbooks covering her L-shaped desk.

Quinn scoffed, "I do not have a wide-set vagina."

"Of course not," her tone dripped with sarcasm. "If this is about what happened to the dishwasher, I'm invoking my fifth amendment right," she said as she made highlights in her book.

"What?" Quinn narrowed her eyes. "What happened to the dishwasher?"

"Nevermind. You now have my undivided attention," Santana dropped her highlighter into the crease of her book and shut it. She swiveled around and crossed her legs as she looked up at the other girl standing in her doorway. "What is it we have to talk about?"

Quinn drew in a deep breath. "You need to stop bringing so many skanks to the apartment," she let out in one breath.

Santana stared at her. "What? What…skanks? Who are you talking about?"

"You know who I'm talking about!" she shouted. "Those…girls. They're…gross. They're…skanks."

"Well…" Santana smirked as she took off her glasses and sat them on the desk. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her swivel chair. "If this isn't the skank calling a skank a skank."

"Believe me, as a former skank, I know. But also – as a former skank turned Yale student and now graduate– I know that these girls…" she shook her head, "they're just not a good look for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're in an Ivy now, Santana. That comes with a certain…esteem. A certain…reputation. Especially being in an Ivy law school. Take it from me, you have to be very, very careful about the vibes you give off."

"I am…so confused."

Quinn walked into the room and took a seat at the foot of Santana's bed. "Do you wanna be known by your classmates or by your future colleagues as the slutty lawyer who has a rolodex full of women on her desk? Who…takes a different escort to the holiday party every year?"

"What the hell is a rolodex? Hold on…Quinn…I don't pay for sex. Wha…"

"I'm pretty sure I heard that girl's Venmo 'cha-ching' when she left this morning," Quinn interrupted with an eye roll.

"What?! I was paying her back for the Ub…"

"Santana," she interrupted again.

"It was for the UBER!"

"This isn't the first time you've paid a woman for her company."

Santana's jaw dropped. Quinn had never seen her so indignant.

"Elaine?" Quinn prompted.

"Who the hell is…oh." Santana shook her head as she remembered her. "Oh no, I didn't sleep with her. How do you even know about that?"

"Tina."

"Dammit, Tina."

"Look, you may not have slept with her, but you did pay her to pose as your girlfriend," Quinn pointed out. "And you may not be paying for sex yet – part of me thinks that's mostly because you can't afford it – but your behavior these last few months suggests to me that…," she drew in another deep breath, "you might be heading down a path you may not be able to come back from so easily."

"Since when do you care about what 'path' I go down?"

"I'm not saying I care about your path. All I'm saying is that…Ivy graduates have a responsibility to speak up when they see one of their own wasting their potential. Didn't they tell you that at orientation?"

"Wasting my potential? I'm in here…" she swivels around in her seat, gesturing to her dense textbooks stacked open crease to open crease, loose papers strewn around the desk, "busting my ass…trying to…do something useful with my life. So what if I bring a girl home a few nights a week to…unwind? So what if I feel…generous in the morning and decide to cover her Starbucks or her Uber on her way home? You know what?" She swiveled back around to face her roommate. "Not that this is any of your business, but my potential is fine. Also? This conversation is ridiculous," she said as she lifted herself from her seat and walked out of the bedroom.

"Okay, maybe 'potential' was the wrong word," Quinn conceded as she got up to follow her roommate down their narrow hall to the kitchen, "But obviouslyyou're going through something that you obviously don't know how to deal with."

"And you obviously don't know what you're talking about," she said as she opened the refrigerator door. She reached in to grab one of her lite beers.

"Santana," she started, "I know abou…"

"What?" She slammed the refrigerator door shut and turned around to face her roommate. Quinn flinched at the sound. "What?" She challenged her.

She watched as Quinn stood on the other side of the island. Santana leaned against the stove, lowering her beer bottle to the hem of her oversized dark grey Columbia Law tee, screwed the cap off and turned to toss it on the countertop. Quinn flinched at the sound of the metal cap screeching to where it actually landed in the sink.

"What?" Santana repeated, shrugging her shoulders. "You think that because we've lived together for what…three months now…you think you know me? You think you know what I do or don't know how to deal with? You think…"

Quinn scoffed. "I've known you since we were fourteen, Santana. Fourteen. Believe me, I know you. Probably better than anyone el…"

"You don't know anything about me," she interrupted.

"Do I know what it's like to be a Latina?" Quinn shook her head as she took a step closer to the island. "No. Do I know what it's like to be gay?" She shook her head again. "Not really. But I do know what it's like to live with expectations on you. I…know what it's like to wait for the people who are supposed to love you no matter what to actually love you and accept you," she paused when she saw Santana fix her eyes on the hardwood floors. "Especiallywhen you don't live up to those expectations.I…" she took in a deep breath as she took interest in the floors herself. "I know what it's like to walk away from a person you love. I…know what it's like to not be chosen…"

"Quinn, I…" Santana exhaled loudly, her head still fixated on the floor. She lifted her head to look at her roommate. She saw her leaning on her elbows on the island countertop. She dropped her eyes back to the floor as she felt the threat of tears. "I…why are you doing this?" She asked, her voice barely audible over the sirens coming from the street.

"Because!" She shouted. "Sorry," she brought her voice back down. "Because…I've been there. I mean, I'm not saying that, that Beth and Brittany are the same or…that your grandmother and my dad are the same or…that somehow my pain hurt me more than yours is hurting you. I'm not saying any of that. I'm just saying that…" she let out a breath she'd been holding. "I know you're hurting. I know. But," she hesitated. "And Santana please don't take this the wrong way. My therapist told me that…everyone has their pain," she shrugged. "The pain doesn't look the same, but it's there and it's real. It, it may be dormant sometimes or dull or achy or…excruciating. And there's nothing that anyone can do to take away your pain. Pain is a personal experience. But that doesn't mean you can't have help managing it."

Quinn watched Santana as she stood, still leaning against the stove with her eyes fixated on the ground. She heard her sniff as she pushed up the long sleeves of her oversized shirt. Quinn's eyes followed the flesh-toned band-aids stacked on the inner side of her right wrist as she lifted her beer to her lips.

"It also doesn't mean you get to cause pain for yourself," Quinn added carefully.

Santana cocked her head toward her.

"I know."

She scoffed. "Look Q, I already told you." She sat her beer on the countertop, pulled her sleeves back down, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I accidentally broke one of your mugs when I was washing yourdishes. That's where that cut came from."

"Santana."

"How many times do I have to say I'm fine,I…"

Santana watched as Quinn took a deep breath and rounded the island. She watched as she approached her with a look she'd never seen. She felt Quinn wrapped her arms around her neck. "What are you doing?" She tried to free herself from the embrace.

"Hugging you." Quinn said, tightening her hold.

"Quinn, get off."

"No."

"This is ridiculous, I'm…fine. I'm…," she inhaled deeply. "I'm…"

Quinn tightened her hold on her roommate as she felt a growing dampness on her shoulder and a set of arms hug her back. She braced herself as silent sobs shook them. "You're gonna be okay," she breathed out. "It's gonna be okay."

September 2024

"I…take back what I said earlier," Dr. Broffman said as she looked back down at her notes. "She is definitelya good friend."

Santana drew in a deep breath and nodded.

Dr. Broffman leaned forward in her seat and studied her client. She watched as she dropped her eyes to her hands clasped in her lap. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Santana."

Santana kept her eyes on her hands.

"What happened next?"

October 2016

"How'd you know?" Santana asked, the sound of her voice barely audible over the clinking of her spoon in her bowl of butter pecan ice cream.

Quinn kept her eyes on her own bowl as she spooned out the last bit of rocky road. "I…" she said, shoveling the spoonful into her mouth, "…figured it out when I looked in the cupboard and saw every one of my mugs still intact." She dropped her spoon into her bowl and twisted in her seat at the island to face her roommate. "You've got to stop, Santana. Okay?"

Santana watched as the melted ice cream she spooned around fell back into the bowl as she lifted the spoon to her lips. She clenched her jaw and gave a small nod, not turning to look at the other girl.

"Do we need to…switch to paper plates and cups? If you think you might…get clumsy…again?"

Santana drew in a deep breath, lifted her eyes to look straight ahead toward the calendar that hung on the load-bearing column at the end of the island. She shook her head.

"I think you should…talk to someone. A professional. My therapist, Dr. B, she's amazing. I can give you her num…"

Santana cut her off, "I don't think I'm ready for that."

"You could…talk to me," Quinn suggested as she got up from the island, taking her bowl to the sink. "I mean, if this conversation accomplished nothing else," she walked back and reached across the island to take Santana's bowl, "at least we now know we canhave a real conversation – sober—without slapping each other."

Santana drew in another deep breath and shrugged a shoulder.

"Talk to me," Quinn leaned forward to rest her arms on the island countertop.

"What do you want me to say? I…I…had a…lapse in judgment that won't happen again."

"Okay," she nodded. "I believe you." She let out a deep breath as she nodded to herself. "We can talk about something else, if you want. It's uh…probably not the best subject right now, but I have to ask. What happened with you and Brittany? The last thing I saw was you two making out waiting for the elevator at Disney…"

"You're right," Santana cut in. "Not a good subject."

"Oookay." Quinn cleared her throat.

"Soo…" Quinn cleared her throat and tried again. "There's no chance of you and Britt working things out?"

Santana let out a deep sigh and shook her head. "None that I can see," she said, standing up from her seat at the island. She walked further into the living room and plopped down on their grey couch.

"I'm sorry, Santana. And even though I don't know the whole story, I know how much you mean to each other and I'm really sorry you're going through this…thing."

Santana nodded to herself and sent a half smile over her shoulder toward her roommate.

"But!" Santana jumped at Quinn smacking her hands down on the countertop. "I know you didn't ask, but here's what I think you should do. I think…it's time to rip off the band-aid."

"What?" Santana cocked her head.

"Rip off the band-aid," she repeated. "The girls you bring home," Quinn shook her head, "they don't count. With them, it looks like you're just…peeling off the edges of the band-aid, slooowly pulling it off, ripping your skin off one cell at a time. You need to rip off the band-aid," she gave an assured nod.

"And why don't they count?" Santana asked, looking up at her as she moved a pillow to sit down on the other end of the couch.

"Because they're not real," she shrugged. "You should be out looking for a real person. Someone special.Someone who expects more from you than just…comping her uber ride home in the morning. Someone you can actually talk to. Someone you can have fun with. Someone who'll…let you bore her to death when you practice your opening statements for moot court, or whatever it's called. I'm just saying," she shrugged. "You can do better."

"And what's better? Some uptight…repressed…miserable…Stepford-lite? Like you? Yeah right."

Quinn scoffed, "I'm offended. Also, no thanks. How many times do I have to say it? Thatwas a one-time thing."

Santana shook her head and laughed to herself. "You know…for a person who insiststhat it was just a one-time thing, you do bring it up quite a bit. What's that about?"

Quinn scoffed again and turned to face the front of their living room.

"Come on, you just said this is proof we can have real conversations, so…let's do it," Santana challenged.

Quinn opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. She cleared her throat again. "What's there to say?" She let out with a shrug. "People hook up at weddings. It's a cliché for a reason. As far as…frequency is concerned," she cleared her throat again. "It was a one-time thing. And…"

"It might have been a one-night thing," Santana interrupted, "but it was definitely more than one-time."

Quinn scoffed again.

"Do you need a cough drop or something?" Santana asked.

Quinn swallowed and shook her head.

"No? Then get your throat under control 'cause I think we need a review of the events."

"Do we really?"

"I started the day hating life," Santana ignored her and continued. "You started the day hating men. Emily Stark met Rosario Cruz at the open bar. Two glasses of wine turned into six – between the two of us. And one time turned into…" she looked down at her hands as she started counting. "You know what? It doesn't matter at this point. All I know is that 'these are the facts of the case and they are undisputed.'"

"Is there some point you're trying to make? Also, weaving in quotes from that movie isn't gonna make it suck any less than it already does."

"A Few Good Men is one of the greatest movies of all time, but you can't handle the truth," she shrugged.

Quinn rolled her eyes at the quote.

"But seriously, Q," she redirected. "I'm just checking in." She shifted to bring her legs up onto the couch. "I know we joke about U-hauls and all that, but I…wanna make sure you're okay with what happened. I mean, I fell in love with the first girl I ever had sex with. And when that happened, I didn't know how to deal with it. Now, I'm not saying you're gonna fall in love with me or anything like that, but," she paused, "…you're…notin love with me, right?"

Quinn narrowed her eyes at her roommate. "No."

"Good," Santana nodded. "Look, all I'm saying is that," she took in a deep breath, "it's…different, you know? Like, when it doesn't involve some weird power imbalance or some sort of…coercion…or some…transaction. When it's just two people doing what…feels good, it's…nice. At least…it was for me," she shrugged.

Quinn tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're right," she nodded to herself. "It was…good. And…yeah, you're right again. It was different. You know, Puck was my first. And we all know what came of that. And…"

"How was Trouty Mouth?" Santana interrupted.

"We never had sex."

"Hold up." She straightened herself up on the couch. "Are you saying your only experiences have been me and Puck?"

"I slept with Finn," she added, dropping her eyes to her lap, "…while I was dating Sam."

"So, to clarify, you've only had sex with me, Puck and Finn?" Santana smirked to herself. "I'm probably the best sex you've had."

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Actually," Santana paused, contemplating. "Since I've had sex with everyone you'vehad sex with," she reasoned, "I know I'm the best."

"Ugh!" Quinn covered her flushed face with her hands. "You are…unbelievable," she grumbled.

Santana got up and walked into the kitchen to grab a water bottle. "And you, my friend, are welcome,"she smirked as she lifted the bottle to her lips.

"Now that I'm thinking about it," Quinn said from her spot on the couch. "That night was probably the most fun I've ever had," she teased.

Santana choked on her water.

Quinn smirked to herself, "Who needs the cough drop now?"

September 2024

"So that's how you found me," Dr. Broffman nodded to herself.

Santana nodded as she glanced down at her watch. She let out a deep breath, "You've got to cut me off when I go over, doc."

The doctor looked up at the clock above her client's head. "The client that has the slot after you cancelled again." She narrowed her eyes. "Actually, they cancelled…every appointment," she closed the folder on her lap and set it on the table in front of her. "Excuse me for just a second." She got up from her seat and walked over to her desk.

"Patricia?" Santana pursed her lips and watched as Dr. Broffman paged her secretary.

"Yes doctor?" Santana heard from the voice coming through the speaker.

"Would you mind following up with my usual 4:30? Oh, and could you please request a wellness check for the address we have on file?"

Santana's eyes widened at the exchange.

"Yes ma'am," the voice answered.

"Thank you!" The doctor walked back over to her seat. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"We were wrapping up," Santana stood up and smoothed out her skirt. She grabbed her purse and extended her right hand toward the doctor. "Same time next week?"

As she reached up to shake her client's hand, her eyes caught on to the flesh-toned band-aids on her wrist. She pursed her lips and nodded, "Of course."