Update is here! If you can review, I'd really appreciate it! I love hearing you guys' feedback! :)
On that note, enjoy!
It's been two weeks since Santana met Brittany at the cafe—and her mind hasn't been focused on anything else. It's strange that someone captivates her like this. It's like, no matter what she's doing, or what she should be focusing on, all she can think about is what the blonde's doing—and the next time she'll get to see her.
She hasn't been back to the cafe, not wanting to look desperate. But, part of her starves for more interaction with the girl.
Even Quinn's noticed the new way she's acting. Despite her refusal, Quinn's convinced something happened with Sebastian after the date. Santana's told her multiple times that she'd rather voluntarily listen to Berry screech for the rest of eternity than participate in those activities with him, but she's still insisting.
Even now, as they're walking through the city, Quinn keeps nagging her about it.
"Just tell me what happened, and I'll leave you alone," she negotiates.
"I am telling you what happened!" Santana sighs, exasperated. "So, leave me alone."
Quinn moves in front of Santana, walking backward to face her friend. "I don't buy it. Why are you acting so…civil…all of a sudden?"
Santana looks at her friend, unbelieving that she's so adamant that she's lying. "Am I not always civil?" she asks, throwing her arms out to the side.
Quinn laughs. "Hell no."
Santana rolls her eyes and keeps walking, silently hoping Quinn runs into something in her backward stroll.
She's not gonna warn her, either.
Unfortunately, Quinn turns around and evades any potential obstructions, squashing Santana's hope.
"Fine," Quinn says, feigning nonchalance, "don't tell me."
Santana lets out a groan at Quinn's ridiculousness. Why doesn't she believe her? Is she really acting that differently?
Santana stays silent as they continue walking, letting Quinn fume for a moment before she inevitably continues her rant.
Quinn speaks up a moment later, not looking in Santana's direction. "You have your outfit for Funny Girl yet?" she asks.
Santana's surprised at the change in subject, not anticipating the switch.
"No," Santana says with a laugh. "Are we really going to that?"
"Santana," Quinn scolds, "of course we are. We're her friends."
"Mutual?" Santana challenges, raising her eyebrows at the back of Quinn's head. She finds it odd that Quinn's so adamant about rekindling with Berry. Last time Santana checked, Rachel completely ghosted them…dropped off the face of the earth.
No returned calls, no texts—nothing.
"She's not a bad person," Quinn defends. "I told you, she just got caught up in rehearsal."
Santana shrugs, shoving her front hands in her pockets. "Sounds like bullshit to me."
Santana can see the tilt of Quinn's head as the girl rolls her eyes before she comes to a complete stop, almost causing Santana to collide with her back. Santana opens her mouth to spew an insult, but Quinn speaks first.
"Look, of all the people who deserve our forgiveness, it's her," Quinn says, her eyebrows furrowed in determination. "So she cut us off for a couple months because she was stressed? That's nothing in comparison to what we've done to her."
Santana breathes deeply, looking into the sincerity shining in Quinn's eyes. Clearly, she still feels guilty.
Santana'd be lying if she said it didn't still linger within herself, too.
Part of her feels like it's almost easier to be on bad terms with Rachel. If she's not being a friend, it helps relieve some of the weight on her chest that remains from high school. If Rachel isn't giving her a reason to feel bad about it, the guilt doesn't feel justified.
"If she can forgive us for four years of hell, we can forgive her for two months of ignorance."
Santana rolls her eyes, scuffing her shoes on the concrete.
Fine…Quinn may have a point. Berry may be annoying—and, like, Santana's second least favorite person in the world—but she's still their friend. And, up until two months ago, she was one of the most loyal.
"I guess I'll go," Santana mutters, annoyed at having to concede. "Give me the damn ticket."
Santana holds out her hand in frustration, prompting Quinn to hand over the paper. A smile breaks out on Quinn's face, and she quickly digs in her purse for it. She hands it over a moment later, nodding her head in approval as Santana slides it into her back pocket.
"I'm not buying anything fancy," Santana states, unwavering in her position.
Quinn shrugs. "I don't care. Wear pajamas if you want—I just won't claim you."
Santana smirks at the ultimatum. "You act like that's not a personal goal."
/
The week of Rachel's performance, Santana does everything in her power to make the week drag by slowly. Her performance is Saturday night, and Santana has yet to find what she's wearing or gather the mental courage to sit through a three-hour show.
It's the last thing she'd rather do on the weekend.
She does her best to complete the most mundane tasks at work, causing the days to become the most monotonous. But it's already Wednesday, and Santana finds herself unbelieving that it's already the middle of the week.
She's sitting at her work desk, filing through various emails, keeping an eye on the time. It's not anywhere near Saturday yet, but every minute that ticks on is one minute closer to showtime.
Is she a shitty friend?
Part of her feels like she's supposed to be excited to see Rachel perform in her debut. Quinn is.
But Santana sat through three years of hearing Rachel sing in glee club—she's heard it all before. Especially the songs in Funny Girl. So, if anything, she just doesn't want to listen to it again.
It's not that she's unsupportive of Rachel…it's just human to dread things you don't want to do, right?
/
It's not until after her lunch break that she finds a place she's less excited to be at than Rachel's show. Walking into the studio, all gazes in the lobby snap over to her and watch carefully as she makes her way to the elevator. At first, she thinks of how good she must look in her new grey blazer-skirt combo, but then it clicks.
Shelby's back.
As soon as the elevator doors close, she leans against the farthest wall and sighs. So much for a week of a stress-free work environment. She knew it'd happen eventually—but Shelby wasn't due back for another five days.
The elevator opens on the fifth floor with a ding, and a tall brunette woman marches her way over to Santana, who hasn't even left the elevator.
"Santana," Shelby speaks, "I've been looking for you everywhere."
"Yes, ma'am?" she responds politely, folding her hands together in front of her midsection.
"I need you in the fishbowl in ten minutes."
That's all she says before walking away, leaving Santana confused and aggravated at the sudden change of plans. Today, she was supposed to go through Shelby's disaster of an email inbox—deleting spam, answering important inquiries. All the things a good assistant is supposed to do while their boss is out of the office.
But, with the change of schedule, Santana begrudgingly follows behind Shelby, seeing eyes of pity follow her as she walks. They almost make it to the desired room when Shelby abruptly turns around, furrowing her brows and pointing back in the direction they came.
"Get the file," she orders as if it should already be implied.
"For what?" Santana asks. Her usual snarky tone is hidden by faux politeness and respect.
"Mercedes." Shelby waves her hand and cranes her neck forward, her tone as condescending as it can be. She gestures toward Santana's desk, and Santana simply nods and walks away, wordlessly doing what she's told.
Oh, how badly she wants to rip Shelby a new one.
It takes a few moments, but Santana eventually finds the file for Mercedes Jones. It's a plain manilla folder with a scribbled M on the top, showing just how organized everyone in this studio is. She takes a deep breath before heading back to the recording booth, mentally preparing herself for the afternoon ahead.
Mercedes Jones, up-and-coming pop star, is sitting on a wooden stool, smiling contently as she waits for further instruction. Shelby's sitting on a couch on the other side of a glass wall, her hand resting on her chin in aggravation. When Santana walks through the door, she stands up, annoyed, and snatches the folder from Santana's hands. Santana stands still, frozen in place at the quick movement, and watches as Shelby enters the booth where Mercedes sits.
Mercedes waves at Santana before Shelby reaches her, and Santana sends a half-hearted one back.
The guy sitting at the control booth looks just as unenthusiastic as Santana. He watches carefully as Shelby and Mercedes talk—he doesn't have the microphone on, so their voices are muted.
Shelby comes out a moment later, seeing Santana standing in the same spot as before; she snaps her fingers and points to the couch, silently telling Santana to sit down.
Santana internally rolls her eyes. If she had sat down, Shelby would've had a problem with it; but she didn't sit down, which Shelby obviously still has a problem with. Nothing satisfies the woman.
She remains seated on the couch for the rest of the afternoon, listening to Shelby's critiques and input throughout the recording session. The lack of bite and cruelty in her tone as she speaks to Mercedes makes her uncomfortable.
How is it that she treats these artists so well but can't even treat her staff with half an ounce of respect? Santana knew that when she applied for this job. She knew of Shelby's reputation, the amount of disdain the workplace carries for her. But none of it really matters—she's the owner of the studio; what she says, goes, and whoever has a problem with it doesn't remain an employee for long.
Santana only accepted this position because she thought it'd give her a way in—a way into the producing world. It's always been her dream to make music.
Well…ever since glee club opened her eyes to it.
Most people who want music careers are those like Berry—they want to be the music. But Santana's found her passion in creating it. Building harmonies, placing instruments, and even guiding the vocalist is where she really finds her passion. She doesn't want to be the face of music…she wants to be the genius working behind the scenes.
But if she gets a gold record someday, she'd be fine with that, too.
/
Much to her chagrin, Saturday night arrives a lot quicker than Santana thought. Even Shelby's return couldn't slow time to an almost complete stop. But a girl can hope for a miracle.
She's curling her hair, focusing hard on not touching the curling wand to her scalp. She did so about fifteen minutes ago, and her head is still burning.
Just as the tool clamps on another strand of hair, and Santana steadies her hand to hold it in place, her phone starts vibrating on the counter. The sudden noise startles her, but she ensures to yank the wand away from her head.
But she doesn't unclamp the strand of hair, so her head is yanked in the motion, snapping to the side. Frustrated, she throws the iron on the vanity and picks up her phone.
Quinn.
With a roll of her eyes, Santana answers with an annoyed "hello."
"Are you ready yet? We only have an hour until we need to be at the theater. You're wearing the red dress we picked out earlier, right?" Quinn starts spewing questions out faster than Santana can register.
"Woah, calm down," Santana scolds as she puts her phone on speaker, placing it back down on the vanity to resume her hair. "Getting there…and yes, I'm wearing the dress. Why would I have you come over here to help me pick out an outfit and then not wear it?"
"Rachel'll kill us if we're late," is Quinn's response.
"Good. Put me out of my misery early."
"Santana," Quinn scolds. "I'm just making sure."
Nearly finished with the last section of her hair, Santana concentrates as she twirls the iron around a strand, letting it heat up before unraveling it into a perfect spiral. "I'm perfectly capable of getting ready by myself—I'm a full-grown adult, you know?"
There's silence on the other line for a moment, and for a second, Santana thinks Quinn may have hung up. It's not until she hears a muttered, "You sure don't act like it sometimes," that she knows the blonde's still there.
"Fine," Quinn relents. "I'll be there in forty-five minutes…better be ready by then."
With that, the line clicks and the call goes dead. Santana rolls her eyes and unplugs the curling iron, running her finger through her hair to give it a wavy look. She's already got her dress on, so she wouldn't mess up her hair trying to put it on after it was curled, and walks to her bedroom to put on makeup.
She's never been one for all the glitz and glamor. The most makeup she'd wear on a typical day is a light coat of foundation, some mascara, and maybe chapstick. The whole "glam" look just didn't feel right.
She was surprised when she even found this dress sitting in the back of her closet. She doesn't remember buying it, and she definitely can't remember the last time she wore it. Her typical outfit consists of jeans, a casual t-shirt, and her work attire.
She can't remember the last time she actually got glammed up for something.
Maybe senior prom?
After putting the final touches on her makeup—thank you, YouTube—she steps back and looks at herself in her full-length mirror. She does a quick spin to ensure everything looks good at every angle and smiles to herself as she sees a stunning woman in the reflection.
Damn, I look hot, she thinks. Even though she doesn't get dressed up often, it's still a confidence booster.
She runs her finger over her bottom lip, ensuring her lipstick won't smudge, when she hears a car horn beep outside her window. She walks over to the window and peers down, seeing Quinn leaning against a black town car, arms crossed over her chest, and smirk in place.
Santana grabs her black heels and slips them on, grabbing her phone and keys before walking out the door. She meets Quinn on the sidewalk, the door now held open by the driver. Quinn's still standing outside the car, watching Santana as she approaches.
"You're early," Santana says, leaning down to enter the car.
"Didn't believe you were on time, so I came early to rush you," she admits. She gets in the car behind Santana and sits beside her, running her hands down the army green dress she's wearing.
"Jokes on you then—I've been ready for a while," Santana lies.
"Well, there's a first time for everything."