Chapter Text
She’s itching for a cigarette, but she withholds from going down to the corner store because—as Rachel's told her too many times before—smoking is bad for her lungs and it causes cancer and a shitload of other diseases she'd rather not have to deal with in the future.
Ever since watching this documentary on lung cancer, Santana's been trying to quit, so she munches on a toothpick instead in order to distract herself from the desire to light a cigarette and taste the staleness of nicotine on her tongue.
The smell of winter rain tickles Santana's nostrils as she sits on the porch in the bitter cold. Rachel tried to cook earlier, so now the apartment stinks. It was a good excuse to escape their stuffy apartment, and Santana took it. She needed the time to air out her thoughts.
Things are going good now, with mostly everyone in her life, which is not a usual occurrence. Quinn's been in constant contact. They talk or text almost everyday now. Rachel's recent dramatics have settled since their last heart to heart, so they're on really good terms. Basically, she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
There’s an umbrella over her head, because it's drizzling. She hates this kind of rain, because it's misty and sprays her out of nowhere depending on which way the wind blows, but she’s off from work today and had nowhere else to go.
"You're gonna catch a cold."
Santana glances down at the sound of that voice, and she smirks when she sees who it is. "I don't get sick," she says, waving him off with her toothpick.
Henry climbs the steps to the porch in two quick leaps. "Everyone gets sick. Even Santana Lopez," he jests, crouching down underneath her umbrella. He throws an arm around her shoulder to bring her closer, as if she needs warming up or something. Santana's perfectly fine, but she doesn't shrug him off. "Your birthday's coming up," Henry reminds her. "You don't want to be sick on your birthday, do you?"
That's not even a valid question, because she never gets sick. "Colds are for the weak and crippled."
Henry laughs and ignores her. "What do you wanna do anyway?"
Santana shrugs because she doesn't really care. She almost forgot it was even coming up. She'll be turning nineteen this year, which Santana doesn't really think is much of a big deal. S'not like she'll be able to drink legally any time soon, so what's the fucking point?
She can feel a pair of concerned eyes on her, but she refuses to look Henry's way, even as he says, "You've been acting kind of weird lately, which for you is like, super weird."
Santana cracks a smile and it quirks her lips up for a moment until she remembers why she's sitting out here in the fucking cold in the first place. "I can deal with weird," she says, sighing. "What I can't deal with is all this confusion."
"I thought you dealt with that problem back in high school.”
Santana elbows him in the side. "Not that," she huffs out a laugh, but it squeezes her chest tight against the cold. She tries to blame it on the cold, at least, hoping it's not about something deeper.
"Then what's puzzling you, hon?" Henry asks.
Santana scratches at her elbow through her jacket and frowns. "This girl."
"A girl?" Henry feigns shocked and then smiles cheekily. “Wow. That confession was very much anti-climactic."
"Shut up." Santana pulls the umbrella away from him so that the rain is pouring over his head, because he doesn't deserve an umbrella if he's going to act like such an ass. Henry squeaks in surprise and tries to huddle in next to her, but Santana just places her hand against his face to push him away.
"Ow." Henry puts a hand to his cheek. "Santana, you—that actually hurt!"
Santana rolls her eyes. She didn't even hit him that hard. "Here I am trying to be serious for once and you're teasing me," she says, scoffing when Henry pushes her back and then steals her umbrella away.
"Ha. I win."
Fast raindrops fall into Santana's hair and drip down her cheek. She sighs and wipes at her face, trying her best to hold back the smile curving at her lips at the sight of Henry's hair sticking to his forehead. "Not really. Now we're both fucking wet."
Laughing, Henry pulls a face. "Speak for yourself. Girls don't get me wet," he says, and then coughs when Santana punches him in the stomach. It's not too hard of a hit, but Henry's a pansy, so. He stares at her for a moment, contemplating whether he should fight back, but eventually his shoulders sag in defeat. "Sorry, sorry. Go ahead. I'm listening."
Santana steals the umbrella back, but when Henry tries to huddle in next to her, she doesn't push him away this time. He looks like a drowned rat anyway, and Kurt would go ballistic if his boyfriend caught a cold and it was her fault.
Santana sighs and leans her shoulder against Henry's. He's no longer as warm as he was two minutes ago, but oh well. She likes the comfort of his touch. "So, this girl. She's...a really close friend that I've known since high school, and it's a little awkward talking about it with anybody else I know, so that's why I'm telling you."
Henry gets this look on his face. He inhales tightly, chest puffing up a bit, and averts his eyes to the damp stone with a strained expression. "Okay, so, this girl...do you know if she likes you back?"
Santana snorts and then rolls her eyes, because hell if she knows. Quinn has this way of leading people on—Santana's seen her do it a thousand times to the guys they knew in high school—and most of the time, Quinn’s doing it all on purpose, so no, Santana has no idea what Quinn's game is this time.
"Even if she did like me, she'd never say it point blank," Santana reasons, leaning back against the damp railing. "I think I want to take this chance, but I can't ruin another friendship, and it would suck for everyone if this didn't work out."
Henry looks to be deep in thought as he strokes at his hairless chin. Green eyes go unfocused for a moment until a tiny, barely noticeable grin quirks at his upper lip. "Being gay, I know better than anyone how much the friendzone sucks, and the only way out of it is to just be brave and risk it," he says, shrugging a shoulder, like it’s just that fucking easy to bear her soul to a girl Santana used to swear didn’t have one. "There's no better time than the present, so I think you should tell this girl how you feel, Santana. I mean, who knows, maybe she feels the same way."
Santana resists the urge to roll her eyes. Knowing Quinn Fabray, that is a very massive maybe.
--
Working at Cobblestones is kind of ridiculous sometimes. It's just a block away from NYADA, so those diva students are always bringing their stupid theatre drama down to her workplace.
It's annoying as fuck, especially Frick and Frack, who come around almost as much as Rachel. They obviously think they're all friends now just because Santana made out with Angela about five times and felt up her boob, and because they're technically mutual friends through Rachel, or whatever.
She doesn't mind them, not really, but then every time they come around, Daniel gives her the stink eye, like she's done something to personally offend him. And okay, maybe she did, but it's not like she remembers, so the dude really needs to just back off.
And Angela? Jeez, can that girl talk. Motormouth asks a waterfall of random ass questions whenever she comes in to order a muffin. Stupid questions, too, about Santana’s favorite eye color—blue, green, or brown?—or whether she'd ever date anyone shorter than her, or in what way would she exhibit feelings for a girl she liked.
See, stupid questions that aren't even worth her time.
Santana only answers, albeit reluctantly, because the whole fucking morning rush has formed a line that rolls out the door and curves around the whole damn building.
Eye color? Blue eyes, of course. Height? Preferably someone taller than her. Expression of affection? Whenever Santana wants to have sex with someone, she lets them know. Like, she doesn't hold back, and if she gets a vibe that a girl likes her, she's in her pants before you can say zipper.
Angela never exactly seems happy with any of Santana’s answers, but whatever. It's probably some stupid lesbian survey she's doing for that gay school of hers anyway, and Santana doesn't mind being a statistic when it comes to good sex.
So, win-win.
--
"Daniel asked me out," Rachel says when they're in the bathroom. Rachel's in the shower as Santana brushes her teeth, and she really wasn't about to spit, but it happens anyway. She almost misses the sink.
"Again?" This has to be about the fifth fucking time, and Santana honestly can't comprehend how Rachel hasn't blown her shit by now. Santana taps the end of her toothbrush against the sink before popping it back into her mouth. "God, can that kid not take a fucking hint or something?"
There's a sigh from behind the shower curtain. "I don't know," Rachel says, her voice a little unsteady. "I...I think I'm actually considering saying yes this time."
Santana stops brushing to stare at herself in the mirror, because why? Why would Rachel do that to herself? Daniel is practically Finn, only shorter and with a better body. Sure, the kid can dance, and he has a future ahead of him, and okay, maybe he's not Finn, exactly, but Daniel is such a tool, and Rachel needs someone who can challenge her. What Daniel has is a schoolyard crush that will go away once he gets what he wants, and that, folks, is Finn Hudson in a fucking nutshell.
"Santana?"
She swishes and spits. "I don't think that's a good idea, Rach."
"Wha—why not?"
"Because," Santana trails off, biting down on her lower lip. She lets out a huff of annoyance, because she could totally repeat everything she was just thinking, but it would no doubt come off as condescending and probably a bit hypocritical considering the women she's been with since arriving in New York.
So, whatever, there's no denying most of the girls she's slept with hold a minor and/or slightly close resemblance to her ex, and for Santana to use Finn as a reason why Rachel shouldn't date Daniel would sound fucking stupid, so she doesn't say that.
Instead, she goes, "I thought you didn't like him. I mean, I know I'm no saint, and I've definitely did my fair share of teasing in the past, but that poor guy doesn't deserve to get led on."
It's a weak excuse, and Rachel seems to know it by the silence that follows. At least five seconds pass before Rachel speaks up, saying, "Well, maybe I'm not leading him on this time. Maybe I'm serious."
Serious, shmerious. Santana rolls her eyes, because that's really dumb. How naïve does Rachel think she is? "You can't be serious about somebody so dull."
"Then explain Cole," Rachel shoots back, her voice a bit louder now over the running water.
"Easily," Santana says, glancing sideways at Rachel's silhouette through the curtain. "I'm not serious about her."
Rachel peeks her head out and raises a brow. "Then who are you serious about, Santana? What are you serious about? Are you serious about anything?" she fires off, and Santana has to bite down hard on her toothbrush to refrain from growling, because Rachel really has some nerve.
Santana has a plan, and even if she didn't, she would still move at her own fucking pace, no matter how fucking slow, thank you very much.
They're usually so in tune with each other's emotions, but Rachel doesn't seem to get how annoyed Santana is as she continues talking, "So far, all you've been doing is floating around, and I know you said you were planning to enroll at NYU, but I honestly haven't seen you do—"
"Quinn's been helping me."
She really didn't mean to let that one slip, but it's out there now. “Excuse me?" Rachel practically squeaks, and then the water in the shower stops, and fuck, Santana really did it now.
"Quinn. She's been helping me with my application," Santana repeats, but Rachel just stares at her blankly as water drips down her neck and onto the bathroom mat. Santana snaps her eyes away and back to her reflection when she realizes she's been staring. "I mean, it makes sense though, right? She's at Yale, so obviously she did something right in tricking the admissions people into letting her in."
Now that Rachel's turned off the shower head, it's even quieter than it was before, and it makes Santana feel a little uncomfortable as she continues to scrub at her teeth.
"You're...getting help from Quinn," Rachel says, voice monotonous and kind of empty-sounding. Santana hates it when all the fucking life drains out of Rachel, because then she starts to feel like shit, and she doesn't deserve to feel like shit, because she honestly didn't even do anything wrong.
Santana spits again and then averts her eyes down to the sink when Rachel steps out of the shower to hastily dry herself with a towel that's hanging on the far wall. "Rachel, c'mon, don't be like that."
"Don't be like what?"
When Rachel gets like this—all pouty and silent and tear-brimmed—it really fucking sucks. They've been spending so much time together that their moods have sort of linked up. Whenever Rachel's sad, Santana feels like complete shit, whether she caused the sour mood or not.
"Don't be all insulted I didn't ask you for help, okay?"
"I'm not. Absolutely not," Rachel says, tucking the towel under her armpits, and Santana rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, because bullshit. Rachel busies herself with drying her hair before meeting Santana's gaze through the mirror. Brown eyes soften for a spell before they harden in contempt all over again. "But honestly, Santana, it's not like I'm not right here, living in the same city as you, not to mention the same apartment."
Santana huffs, because here it comes. "Rach—"
"And I didn't only apply to just NYADA, you know."
"I know."
"I also got into Penn State, Boston University, and Syracuse," Rachel rants on, and Santana mouths along with her, rolling her eyes at her reflection in the mirror, because she knows. Rachel always says this shit.
Some people don't respect theatre arts majors, but Santana isn't like that. Rachel is ridiculously smart—the girl memorized half the fucking dictionary by the time she was like seven, and she was always on the honor roll in high school—so it's not like Santana thinks Rachel is incompetent or anything, which her verbose roommate continues to reiterate from behind her.
"I am perfectly capable of helping you fill out a college application that doesn't involve admission into the arts," Rachel huffs, and okay, Santana already knew that, so she waits a moment, only to see if Rachel's done, because if she gets cut off one more time she's going to just bail, and if she does that, Rachel will get mad, and an argument like this could definitely span out to last a lifetime between the two of them.
Thankfully, Rachel doesn't open her big mouth again as she turns back around to grab the lotion from off the top shelf. It's so high she has to lean up on her toes to reach, and damn, Rachel has some really nice calves. They flex and glisten against the dull lighting in the bathroom, and Santana tries not too drool as she snaps her attention back to doing whatever the fuck she was about to do.
"Rachel, I know, and for that you're super," she says, forgetting what it even was Rachel just said. Whatever. Flattery can get you very far in life.
Santana reaches into the medicine cabinet for this awesome face cream Rachel and Kurt have been using since high school. The stuff does wonders for her complexion. She actually fucking glows now, and it finally makes sense why Rachel's skin was always so fucking flawless. Santana doubts she's ever even seen a zit or pimple on the girl.
"Then why Quinn and not me?" Rachel asks, and oh fuck, are they really still on this?
Santana allows her eyes to close as she rubs the green and gritty cream across her cheeks and forehead. "Ever since the wedding, Quinn and I have been..." Now, she doesn't want to be too honest, because ew, she'd never share those types of details with Rachel, especially not about Quinn of all people. There's no doubt Rachel still holds some animosity towards the ex-captain of the Cheerios, and Santana doesn't want to make the girl sick or anything, so she shrugs a shoulder and refuses to open her eyes as she says, "I don't know, I guess we've been...reconnecting, and she offered, so you know, whatever."
Santana winces. That sounded so much better in her head. Rachel doesn't say anything for a long time, and Santana holds her breath as she continues to lather her face in cream.
There's some shuffling behind her, which is probably just Rachel moisturizing those orgasmic legs of hers, but other than that, it's complete and utter silence.
The next thing Santana hears is the door opening and then slamming, and shit. She opens her eyes and Rachel's gone. Also, there's a splinter in the door, but Santana ignores it in favor of washing this green gook from off her face before it dries up and gets too hard.
--
She takes Henry up on his advice. The guy is kind of smart when it comes to relationships—like, he's a fucking Casanova, the dude—so what's the harm, right? She's not going to go as far as telling Quinn how she feels, because hell no, she doesn't roll like that, but what can a little honesty hurt?
(It's not like she can't take being vulnerable, because it's nothing like that. It's just, she's never really been that open about her feelings with anyone except Brittany—Rachel, too, sometimes, when she's feeling up to it—and look how well that turned out.)
There's a difference between vulnerability and openness, so Santana swallows her pride and says WWHD (what would Henry do?), and then does things she would've never done in the past, like call Quinn to invite her down to New York—for a concert to see some underground indie band she would appreciate, or maybe to take her to one of those stupid poetry slam things she likes a lot—but Quinn always declines, each and every time Santana extends an olive branch.
Quinn tells her that she has to study for exams (what a nerd), meet up with her women's studies group (and a dork), and confer with the journalism club about her column in the Yale Times (which, when did Quinn become such a geek?).
They're only excuses, Santana knows, because Quinn hates talking to other women about women stuff, and if Quinn really wanted to see her, she'd be here, which kind of pisses Santana off a little, but whatever.
Those things—concerts and poetry slams and weird museums about rubber gloves and soap carvings—are stupid anyway, so she and Rachel make a thing out of waking up early on Sundays to explore the city. They just go anywhere without any kind of destination or map or plans, and it's much more fun than whatever she would've been doing with Quinn anyway.
And she's not holding onto any kind of stupid repressed feelings or anything, because a relationship with Quinn? That wouldn't work out in a millions years, but the sex was so good, and it's not like Santana would mind having some more of it.
Sure, she's in New York, but there's only so many people willing to be in an open relationship despite the diversity of the city. These days, you got to be careful anyway, what with all the people carrying around STIs and giving them out as if it's free candy on Halloween.
Quinn calls what they did together exploration, and Santana wonders how that's any different than experimentation. Turns out it's not. Santana knows what each word means, of course, but she looks them up in the dictionary anyway, and it's kind of crazy how exploration might even be a better word for what the two of them did that night at Schue's wedding.
Santana calls Quinn up a few days later when there's no one else home—Rachel's out with Gwen and Angela doing hell knows what, and Kurt is with Henry, shopping for new furniture to help brighten up Henry's gloomy apartment.
Quinn answers on the fourth ring, which is kind of annoying, but whatever.
Santana's not really sure why she's calling Quinn in the first place, but Quinn has always had this way of pulling her in. It's been this way since high school, actually, but Santana never really knew what it was until recently.
It's only been two days since they've last spoken, but she’s missed hearing Quinn's voice, which is definitely weird, so she doesn't tell Quinn that when she first picks up the phone, but instead tells her, "Exploration means the action of traveling in or through an unfamiliar area in order to learn about it.”
Quinn laughs and says, "That definition is scarily accurate when it comes to exploring the female anatomy."
"Female anatomy?" Santana kind of loves how technical she's being, but, "Stop being such a prude, Q. Just call it pussy."
Quinn grumbles. "I hate that word."
Smirking, Santana falls back against her bed with a sigh. "Gonna have to learn to say it sooner or later if you're going to continue eating from it."
“Is that so?”
She sounds amused, so Santana shrugs, trying not to blush. “Yeah. It’s so.”
"Mhmm. And who said I was going to continue eating from your," Quinn stalls for a moment," ...pussy?"
Santana wants to laugh, but she grins widely instead and traces her fingertip over the stitching of her comforter. "Oh, Q, don't pretend you didn't like it," she drawls, resting an arm under her head. "If you hadn't, you wouldn't have come back for seconds."
Quinn breathes unsteadily through the line. "Well, I mean, you offered, and it would have been rude of me to decline."
So, this is how she's going to play it. Cheeky. Coy. Santana smirks, upper lip twitching naughtily as she tries to imagine where Quinn is, what she's doing. "So, that's your story?"
"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it." Quinn huffs out a laugh at the sound of Santana's annoyed groan.
She wants to hear more. She wants to know why Quinn really gave into her that night. She wants to know what changed between them in that one instant, because Santana knows, more than anything, that it wasn't just the alcohol. They were barely even drunk, and Santana would've never taken advantage of Quinn in that state anyway; not after everything that happened with Puck.
There's some shuffling on the other line, and Santana stares up at the ceiling, waiting for Quinn to speak. She finally does, after another five seconds, saying, "You don't know this, S, but you can be very persuasive when you're awarded the right incentive."
Santana's lips twists into a small smile. She'll take that as a compliment. "Sex is the best incentive."
"Sex with me in addition to others," Quinn drawls searchingly, “…or sex with me in particular?"
Santana's eyebrows rise. There's something Quinn's trying to get at here, and Santana swallows at the sly undertone in her friend's voice. This feels big; very, very big, but Santana's never been good at handling the big, important things like this. Things like Quinn Fabray. Things like expressing her feelings and actually being honest with people.
Quinn has always been unnaturally astute at asking questions without really asking questions, so Santana waits a moment, incredibly still, as she tries to figure out what question Quinn could be asking this time.
Whatever. Fuck it. "You," Santana says, hoping her voice doesn't sound as unsteady as it feels coming up her throat. “Just you.”
There's three seconds of uncomfortable silence, and Santana closes her eyes tightly, holding her breath, because this is the first time she's been this honest with a girl about sex since Brittany.
"Interesting," Quinn says, eventually.
Well, if that's not the least telling thing Santana's ever heard. Talk about anti-climactic. "Interesting?" She just practically told one of her best friends that sex with her was different than the sex she's had with other women, and all she gets is a banal interesting?
It's fucking frustrating, especially when it comes to Quinn and her flight instincts, always retracting after mistakenly putting herself out there. Santana gets it, of course. That used to be her first reaction to uncomfortable situations too, but she’s not going to let Quinn get away with it this time. They had sex. They liked the sex. They’re both in this together no matter what Quinn thinks, until Santana hears a distant bumping noise through the line.
"What was that?" she asks warily.
There’s more shuffling in the background, and then Quinn sighs. "Just the door. My date must be here."
A lump forms in Santana's chest, but she tries not to jump to any conclusions. “Like, those sweet, dark brown fruits?" she wonders, only half-kidding.
"No, Santana." Quinn's voice is oddly gentle, and it makes Santana roll her eyes, because she doesn't need people to coddle her. She can handle the truth, or so she thinks, until Quinn says, "Not a brown fruit, S. A date, as in someone to take me out."
"Since when did you start dating?"
It's a dumb question, because she doesn't even want to know the answer, but Quinn gives it to her anyway. "I wouldn't exactly call what I'm doing dating."
Something clenches in her stomach at the implication. She shouldn't be mad over something like this, because she's been doing the very same thing. She's still sleeping with Cole, so being jealous over this is like the most hypocritical thing ever.
But she is jealous. Quinn isn't like most girls. She doesn't just trust anyone. It's stupid, but Santana thought she was like, special or something. But has Quinn been doing this the entire time? Giving herself away to people who don't even deserve her?
Santana won't try to fool herself into thinking she has any more right to claim Quinn as her own than anyone else, but this is different. It's so much more different, which is why Santana suddenly feels so crushingly defeated as she sits up in bed.
"Oh, my mistake," she drawls nastily. "So, you're just whoring yourself out again, like you did with me."
It's a low blow, and Quinn doesn't back down from the challenge. She never has, and Santana doesn't expect anything less than an equally brutal comeback. "Santana," she says, her voice flat and unwavering. "No offense, but you are the last person who should be criticizing me about my sex life considering..."
She trails off, and Santana raises a brow, waiting. "Considering?"
"Considering all the sluts you've probably fucked since Brittany broke up with you." Those words, those expletives, were not what Santana was expecting at all. There's a whoosh of a sigh as Quinn sucks in a breath of air. She's trying to calm down. "Don't act like you're better than me, Santana, because you're not. We're both lonely and pathetic, so get the hell over it."
Santana scoffs. "I'll get over it as soon as you’re done exploring, Dora."
"My date is waiting for me," Quinn says, and then hangs up.
Santana throws her phone out the curtain and then apologizes when she hears Kurt wince in pain.
--
She’s still mad—hotly steaming, really—when Rachel comes home; she asks what's wrong, but Santana just says she's hungry (and Rachel knows how grumpy she gets when she's hungry), so they order takeout—Rachel calls and surprises Santana with her favorite (because she knows that too)—and then they cuddle up on the couch after dinner, because it's cold and Santana knows Rachel likes it best when she can lay her head on Santana's shoulder as they watch Animal Planet.
There's a rhino drinking from a watering hole in the savannah when Rachel apologizes for being so annoying the other day, and Santana forgives her, of course, because honestly, who can stay mad at that mug? Rachel does this thing with her face that's fucking annoying, where she pokes out her bottom lip and just stares up at Santana whenever she knows she did something wrong, and fuck, Santana can't resist that look.
"So, how's your essay coming along?" Rachel asks, when the commercial comes on.
Santana sighs and pulls the cover up to her chin. "It's going nowhere," she mumbles, especially now that she and Quinn are fighting or whatever.
She's definitely not going to be the first to call back, and it would surprise the shit out of her if Quinn called first. It'll be a few days before she hears anything, and she really needs another pair of eyes to revise and edit her essay, so, "Would you mind looking it over for me? It's about unconventional families and how they're changing society for the better, and since your dads are gay and shit, it'll be really cool if I could get some input from you."
There's this look Rachel gets in her eyes sometimes that's all glistening and bright, and she's doing it right now. That look makes Santana nervous, so she turns her attention back to the television.
The commercial ends, but the program they were watching is totally forgotten as Rachel takes out her iPad and starts planning the main points and thesis statement, and Santana needs to start appreciating her roommate more, because Quinn would never do any of this for her.
--
Since Rachel doesn't understand what it means to give up, she attempts cooking for everyone again, but something on the stove ends up on fire, and Kurt bans her from the kitchen, once and for all. Santana laughs her ass off and hugs Rachel for making her smile, because she's been feeling pretty down lately, and Rachel hugs back just as tightly, and then tells Santana to get back to revising that essay.
Santana tries to, but the burning smell in the apartment stinks, so she packs up her stuff for a coffee shop that's not Cobblestones, and then Rachel decides to tag along, because apparently Kurt's in the kitchen showing off as he fixes himself a meal that's actually edible.
The coffeehouse they're heading to is about two blocks further than Cobblestones, but Santana hates going to her workplace when she's not working, so they make the extra trek, and it's not too bad what with the recently warm weather.
Rachel grabs a New York Journal issue on the way there, because she's a sucker for supporting her friends, and since they’re at the magazine vendor, Santana picks up an issue of Elle and Cosmo for later. Elle, because she likes the fashion, and Cosmo, because there's this juicy story about how a woman fell in love with her lesbian best friend inside.
If Rachel sees the headline over Santana's shoulder, she doesn't say anything about it.
Once they get to the coffeehouse and sit down, Santana suddenly remembers a discussion from about a week ago. "So, whatever happened with that Daniel thing? You never told me how the date went."
Without even looking up from her textbook, Rachel shakes her head. "I decided we'd probably make better friends. He's really sweet and the perfect gentlemen, but...it would just never work, especially now at this point in my life."
Santana bends over to plug in her laptop and then hits the side of the screen when it takes forever to boot up. "Good. I'm glad you finally came to your senses. Danny was a bad idea from the start, but I still think you should get back out there," she advises, twirling her pen around, and then looks up at Rachel when an idea strikes her. "What about that Tyler guy who always comes to Callbacks with us?"
Rachel laughs. "He's gay, Santana. He has a boyfriend. You know, Riley," she explains at Santana's confused expression, but that just boggles her even more, because who? "Riley, the one you always say looks like a giant Gerber baby?"
"Oh, duh. Love that kid," Santana says, smiling, because he always has the best jokes. "Anyway, whatever. How about that dude with the, uh...needy eyes?"
"Fredrick?"
It's amazing Rachel even knows who's she's talking about. "Yeah, sure, him."
"He's gay too."
Santana frowns. Her gaydar must be on the fritz or something. "What the fuck is going on? Why is everyone gay all of a sudden?" she asks, because where were all of these people when she was in high school and thought she was the only person attracted to her best friend?
An elderly woman turns around in her seat to shush her, and Santana rolls her eyes, because she couldn't have been that loud. There's only like five people in here anyway, so whatever.
"Okay, I got it," Santana says, nudging Rachel's foot under the table. Rachel kicks Santana back, but she's smiling, so she's not mad. Good. "What about Henry's friend? Shit, what's his name? The one with the jet black hair and gauges."
"Winston," Rachel offers, tapping her pencil against the table, "and he's not really my type."
Santana finally finds a boy who's straight, and he's not Rachel's type? "You have to stop being so picky."
"Two out of three of the guys you just mentioned are gay, Santana. I can’t exactly pick from them,” Rachel says, sounding kind of agitated. “And hell, Winston might even be gay for all I know."
Actually, there may be some truth to that. Henry has a lot of gay friends. A lot. Santana smirks. "Well, his name is Winston, so—"
"And I think I deserve the right to be picky. I'm only eighteen,” Rachel huffs, and Santana withholds the urge to raise her hands in mock surrender. "This is the time to pick and choose."
"And to be incredibly anal," Santana adds, picking up her phone when it vibrates against the table. "Speaking of anal, Kurt and Henry aren't gonna be in tonight. Apparently it's Wednesday date night." She rolls her eyes, because how much gayer can those two get before there’s a gay explosion?
"You know, we should establish a date night. Just the two of us," Rachel broaches, hesitantly, but she also looks excited at the idea, as if it's something she’s been thinking about bringing up for a while now.
Santana scoffs. “Like we don't spend enough time together already."
"Agreed, but we do the same thing every day. Same routine, same times, same places," Rachel lists off, browns eyes all big and round. Tilting her head sideways, she licks her lips slowly, and fuck, Santana's done. "Let's do something different."
"Okay," Santana drawls, because whatever. S'not like she has anything better to do. "Like what?"
Rachel's quiet for a moment and then just smirks. "I'll think about it and get back to you."
Oh, this should be good.
--
There's at least another month and a half left until spring, but there are birds chirping outside Santana's window anyway. S'not like they ever fly south anymore. She and Rachel have been watching a lot of documentaries on the Animal Planet about wildlife and how animals respond to climate change, and apparently since global warming, most of the birds have stopped relocating to warmer locations during the winter.
While Rachel's hooked on documentaries about ancient cows and animal-ruled civilizations, Santana has taken more of a liking to the Discovery Channel. This is an obsession she would have never admitted to having back in high school, but once you're an adult, it's the more worthless information you know, the better. Santana used to tease Rachel and Kurt about how tiresome their random facts were, but now that she's spent seven months living with them, this odd desire to know more than everyone else has grown on her.
Cole's another know-it-all with a bunch of random ideas and theories. The girl is a genius despite being a total pothead, and not only when it pertains to the guitar. Cole is like a sponge. She sucks up whatever she sees or hears, especially in regard to literature, music, art, and poetry. Santana's made it a habit of going with Cole whenever she has tickets to VIP museum tours. Quinn would shit her pants if she ever met Cole.
The sun glares into her room through a crack in the shades, and Santana turns over, only to find the right side of her bed empty. The spot is still warm, and there's a very noticeable dip as proof Cole was here not too long ago, so Santana gets out of bed and tugs on some pants.
It's cold, because the stupid radiator has been glitching again, so she pulls on a long sweatshirt over her tank top that could possibly belong to Rachel—it's fucking tiny, so it's definitely not hers—and then some fuzzy socks, just because they're really cute and comfy.
She heads into the kitchen to find Rachel and Cole talking about feng shui and redecorating the loft. Their voices are low as they talk, heads bent over the kitchen counter. Looks like a swatch book.
It's kind of fucking weird—watching her best friend and fuck buddy interacting so casually, like they do this every morning, and who knows, maybe they do; it's not like Santana makes a habit out of waking up this early—but she goes along with it anyway, because it's not like it's a big deal or anything.
Cole can literally get along with anyone. It's Rachel's mood swings Santana's afraid of. She could have sworn Rachel wasn't too fond of Cole, but apparently she was wrong considering the way her roommate is laughing hysterically at whatever Cole just whispered in her ear.
Santana pops into the conversation, quite seamlessly, and mentions that Kurt would have a fit at the thought of rearranging anything in the loft. Angela once moved a lamp from off the coffee table so she could do her homework in front of the television, and Kurt had almost popped a fucking blood vessel.
Cole offers to fix a vegan breakfast and then teaches Rachel how to make a simple meal for herself. Santana helps too and they end up putting music on and having a girls thing together. It's nice, doing something light and easy for once, because nothing is ever this simple when Quinn's in the picture, so Santana tries to enjoy this while she can.
--
She’s typing up the last of her essay at their usual table when her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She startles at first, before realizing what it is, and then reaches behind her.
Santana smiles at the message; something cheeky about the next time they'll see each other, and then she quickly texts back can't wait, before re-pocketing her phone. She doesn't even realize she's smiling until Rachel asks who she's texting.
Lying is getting annoying, so Santana tells her the truth. "It's Quinn."
"Oh." Rachel's smile is faint. "Well, um...how is she?"
"She's cool," Santana says, because the best thing to do right now is to offer up vague responses, though Rachel still looks suspicious.
"Santana, if there's anything you'd like to discuss, you can tell me, because we're best friends so we should be able to talk to each other about anything."
But Santana just peeks up from her laptop and says, “Jeez, Rach, stop being so gay."
She always means it jokingly, but Rachel has a habit if seeing past that. As Rachel glances around the other tables, she purses her lips and then says, "You shouldn't say stuff like that, Santana."
"Like what?"
"Like," Rachel hesitates, and then lowers her voice to say, "Stuff like that's so gay."
"But I'm gay. If anyone should be allowed to say it, I'm probably on the top of that list."
Rachel leans back in her chair, arms crossed tightly, and fuck, now this is going to be a thing, isn't it? "But the people around us may not know that and think you're being disrespectful towards homosexuals," Rachel tells her.
Santana sighs, and then rolls her eyes up to the cracked ceiling. "Fine," she says. "Then...stop being so unnecessarily emotional. Better?"
"Not really. While you managed to stop insulting one group of people, you somehow offended me in the process," Rachel says, but she's smiling, so Santana knows that she didn't stick her foot too far down her throat this time.
"I'd never purposefully offend you, boo," Santana says, winking at Rachel from across the table. "I love you too much to hurt you like that."
She's expecting Rachel to roll her eyes or kick her from underneath the table, but instead, all she gets is a kiss blown in her direction, and yes, it's full of sarcasm, but Santana grabs the kiss anyway, and then leaps over the table to press a real kiss to Rachel's cheek.
And if that's in any way gay, she doesn't give a flying fuck.
--
Santana gets off work early, so she texts Rachel, telling her that she's coming to the dance studio to pick her up on her way home. They do this thing, occasionally, so it’s really no big deal.
She gets there, and it's clear Rachel didn't get the text when her eyes light up as Santana creeps into the back of class.
She waves with two fingers and then leans up against a wall as she waits. Her eyes trail over the dancers until they come to a stop at clenching abs. Santana gazes up to find a smirk waiting for her, and she'd look away in embarrassment if she was ashamed, except the woman she was just checking out is Rachel's nutty dance teacher, and Santana wants no part in that, even though she's always had a soft spot for blondes.
The older woman winks at her, and Santana hopes she's not blushing like a five year old—because she sure feels like a five year old compared to this lady—as she scratches at the back of her neck awkwardly.
The class ends about five minutes later, and Rachel practically tackles her when she skips over with a big grin. "I didn't know you were coming to pick me up today," she says, with her arms still slung around Santana's neck, but she doesn't really mind, because Rachel doesn't even sweat much, and it's not like she's heavy.
Angela and Gwen saunter over, and then Angela gives Santana a sultry look. "You two have the cutest friendship. I've always wanted someone I could hold on to that wouldn't push me off even if I reeked of studio must," Angela teases, and Rachel lets go of her neck a second later, almost as if she was burnt, and then reaches down to grab her bag.
"Daniel, you coming, or you staying after class?" Angela yells over her shoulder.
"Coming," Daniel calls, and then scampers past them with a fleeting look in their direction before disappearing into the hallway.
“And she thinks we’re an odd pair,” Santana laughs, thumb pointing over her shoulder. “What’s up with them anyway? I mean, besides Daniel being Angela’s fucking caddy.”
Rachel wipes away some sweat with a towel as they make their way out. “I don’t know. I think they’re just really close. Why?”
Santana shrugs, because she doesn’t know either. She just gets a weird vibe from those two. “All I’m saying is don’t be surprised when they start fucking or whatever.”
Rachel pauses on their way down the hallway, and the look on her face is hilarious. “Daniel and Angela?”
“Dangela, perfect,” Santana teases, because she can totally see this coming from a mile away. She’s fucking psychic, yet no one ever seems to believe her.
They will one day. She’s always had a sixth sense when it come to these kinds of things. No one can ever say Santana Lopez is clueless.
But still, Rachel looks pretty skeptical. “You know what, Santana? If Daniel and Angela ever start dating, I’ll streak through Central Park.”
Rachel must either really want to run around naked, or she’s completely insulting Santana’s psychic Mexican third-eye, which, rude. “Rach, I think that’s a swell idea, though if you ever feel the need to walk around the apartment nude, don’t hold back on my account.”
And of course she means it teasingly, because there’s no way Rachel would ever walk around their place naked—not that Santana’d mind, honestly—but Rachel gets this look on her face that makes Santana want to take it back. She physically forbids herself from blushing because of her faulty filter, and then changes the subject to something about rhinos in the savannah.
Fuck being a lesbian with a healthy sex drive.
--
Everyone is hanging out at the loft. Kurt, Henry, and Rachel are inside arguing over dinner as Santana smokes a cigarette.
She has no resolve. The amount of guilt she'll feel tomorrow morning probably won't be worth it, but she ran out of nicotine gum, and when that craving bites her, there's nothing she can do to stop it.
She's out on the fire escape, waiting for a call from Quinn, but she’s not holding her breath, because Quinn's been acting kind of distant lately.
Santana smokes three cigarettes and then drops them into puddles at the bottom of the alley, sighing dejectedly. She wraps her arms around herself when a cool breeze passes, and she shivers and waits and coughs into her elbow and then shivers some more until Henry peeks his head out to tell her that dinner is ready.
She's not really hungry or in the mood to eat. Her stomach feels kind of empty and full at the same time, so she tells him to start without her.
Henry heads back inside with a look of concern, but Santana brushes it off. She doesn't want his pity. She doesn't need it. She doesn't need anyone. Well, except for Rachel, maybe, because she always has the best advice. Santana needs Rachel more than she needs this fourth cigarette, so she throws it over the railing before it's even finished, and then continues to wait for a call that she knows will probably never come.
Eventually her phone rings, and Santana startles, but it's only Rachel. Regardless, she smiles with a roll of her eyes and then answers the call.
They banter a bit, mostly about Santana being anti-social, but they also flirt, of course—because Rachel has this logical way of speaking and arguing that seems to suggest she's only kidding, which is totally flirting—but then Rachel finally tells Santana to come in because the food is getting cold. Also, everyone misses her, apparently, and Santana clicks her tongue, because, "I doubt anyone misses me but you."
The giggling that comes through the line warms Santana up some. "You know me too well," Rachel says, and there you have it—flirting! Santana ducks her head to peek inside, and then waves at Rachel who's standing near the kitchen with a hand on her hip. She catches Santana's eye and lifts an eyebrow. "Are you coming in, or should I throw out your steak?"
Santana smirks. "You made me steak?"
"You wish."
"The day you make me steak is the day I marry you."
She watches Rachel roll her eyes through the window, but her roommate's joyous expression doesn't match the tone of her voice when she says, "Guess that's never gonna happen."
Santana winks as she hangs up and then ducks back inside. "Your loss, wifey," she says, rubbing her cold nose against Rachel's cheek only because Santana knows it'll made her squeal.
Giggling hysterically, Rachel pushes her away and then tells her to go get cleaned up for dinner. Weird. It's like Rachel is already Santana's wife by the way she bosses her around, and Santana will never admit it aloud, but she kind of likes it when Rachel's bossy.
Henry steals Santana's pack of cigarettes when she comes out of the bathroom, and she's grateful for it. He knows how much she's been struggling to quit, and he's also the only person she told about it. She'd tell Rachel, but Santana doesn't want to ever disappoint the girl if she can't do it. For now, it'll be her and Henry's little secret until she gets a handle on her bad habit.
They eat in front of the TV, watching Breaking Bad, of course, because it's Santana's night to choose. It must be a testament to how much she loves her friends, because when Kurt and Henry start complaining over what they're watching throughout the entire episode, she doesn't kick them out (or in the head).
Santana knew there was a good reason she picked Rachel as her favorite person.
--
Daniel comes by Cobblestones on a Tuesday morning, which is a weird time, because isn't he supposed to be in dance class or something? Whatever. Santana's not in charge of the boy's schedule, so she gets back to work at the register until it's Daniel's turn to order, except he doesn't, instead saying, "Don't you hate it when somebody strings you along, and you have no idea whether they like you or not, so you're left wondering if it's just all in your mind, or if it's...something real?"
His mouth is moving, but Santana's comprehending not one damn word. She narrows her eyes on him and says, “The fuck?” Daniel readies to repeat his question, but fuck no; Santana is not about to listen to that shit again, so she cuts him off, saying, "Look, Pool Boy, I thought Rachel already told you she's not interested.”
Daniel frowns, shaking his head. "No, I'm not talking about myself."
"Well, if you can't tell, I'm kind of damn busy." Santana tightens her apron and then folds her arms over her chest. "So, what the hell are you blabbering about?"
"I was..." he trails off nervously. "I was referring to you."
"Me?" Santana stares at him blankly. "What the hell do you know about me?"
Daniel puffs up his chest, and it's kind of cute; how he thinks he's so big and bad. It's almost like watching Robin trying to impersonate Batman because Bruce Wayne was hungover or something.
"Nothing," he says, shifting his eyes sideways, "but I know about Rachel, and if you haven't noticed, she's been feeling very...neglected lately."
Inwardly, Santana wants to laugh—because who the hell is this guy telling her that he knows more about her roommate, her own best friend than she does?—but she frowns instead, because this kid isn't making any type of sense.
"Well, I appreciate your concern and everything, Danny Boy, but Rachel's fine. I'm her bestie, and if there was something going on with her, I'd be the first to know, got it?"
Daniel blows out a flustered breath of air. He looks just as annoyed as Santana feels. "You really have no idea, do you?"
It's the first correct thing he's said since he's entered Cobblestones. "Obviously. Does this face look like I'm understanding one word coming out of your mouth?"
She points at herself, eyes blank and mouth pulled into a tight-lipped expression. Daniel stares at her for a moment, nose scrunched up angrily, before shaking his head and saying, "You know what? Forget it. If Rachel ends up hurt, there'll be nobody left to blame but yourself."
Santana watches him leave and then rolls her eyes so hard she thinks she pulls a muscle in the back of her head.
That kid got some nerve.
--
What Daniel says sticks with her, despite the stupidity in his words. He obviously thinks there's something up with her homegirl, and Santana would ask Angela about it—since she spends just as much time with Rachel as Santana does—but Angela's annoying as shit.
At this point, she'd rather get trampled by a horse than ask Angela about Rachel, so Santana decides to do it herself. Rachel was the one who said they could talk to each other about anything, after all.
It's only Thursday, two days after Daniel's appearance at Cobblestones, when Santana slips through Rachel's curtain and then plops down on her bed.
Rachel smiles at her, and then pulls out her earphones as she places her book in her lap. It's one of those never-ending series that Rachel's been engrossed in since high school, and Santana tries not to think about how she even knows that, instead focusing on what's important.
"Do you feel neglected?" she asks.
Rachel flips through her thick book before setting it aside and giving Santana her full attention. She raises an eyebrow, puzzled. “Um. No. Why would I feel neglected?”
"I don't know. It's just..." Santana stalls, rolling over on to her back as she tries to remember what it was Daniel said to her on Tuesday. "Daniel stopped by Cobblestones the other day and told me that if you ever ended up hurt, it'd be all my fault. Did this kid start recently smoking grass, or was he just born crazy?"
Rachel's eyes go wild for a moment before she cools her features. Well. That reaction was definitely not okay. "He...Daniel said that? When?"
"Tuesday," Santana says, distractedly messing with the crap strewn all over Rachel's night table. She picks up a bottle of perfume she's never seen before and tries to spray it on her neck, but it ends up right in her mouth. It tastes like apples, but that doesn't stop Santana from coughing and choking on it.
Rachel scoots over and rubs at Santana's back after handing over a bottle of water, and Santana gulps it down, hoping to get rid of the bitter taste that's stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Once she’s calmed down, Rachel starts giggling, and that giggling turns into full blown laughter. She doubles over, arms wrapped tight around her midsection as she leans up against Santana, and although it's not even that funny, Santana laughs too, because Rachel's giggling sounds like a freaking deranged monkey on steroids or something.
“No, but seriously,” Santana says, even though they’re both still smiling, but she’s trying to get this conversation back on track. “You’re not like, I don’t know, sad, right? I know it was hard seeing Finn at the wedding, and I mean, I get it. You know I get it, but you’ve seemed fine to me, and believe me, if I knew there was something wrong I would’ve been—“
“Santana, you’re rambling.” Rachel knits her eyebrows together with a small smile. “And you’re right, I’m fine. No need to worry.”
“Are you su—“
“Positive.”
“Promise?”
Rachel hesitates, and of course Santana notices, but her roommate says, “Promise,” a second later, so Santana takes Rachel at her word, because if it’s one thing they don’t fuck around with, it’s promises.
--
It's a week before her birthday, and she has no idea what anyone's planning. She knows Rachel more than likely has something up her sleeve, and Kurt and Henry never ever pass up the opportunity to throw a good house party, so Santana already has an idea of what to expect.
The thing is, Santana barely even knows anyone in the city yet. There's Cole, who comes around for a quick fuck every now and then, but at least she's consistent. There's Henry, who is her gay brother and awesome on all levels. There's Angela and Daniel, who...well, yeah. And...that's about it. So, if they do end up throwing her a party, it will be both crazy and incredibly lame at the same time.
Kurt will use any excuse to throw a mixer, and Henry thinks she's been sad lately, which isn't entirely false, so he'll literally do anything to lift her mood.
Really, the only reason she's been slightly out of it recently is because she and Quinn got into yet another argument—which practically happens every other time they talk, so Santana really shouldn't be surprised when one of them ends up hanging up on the other.
She should have seen this coming. Their personalities have always clashed; what made Santana think they'd magically start getting along now that they've slept together? Blinded by lust, Santana was convinced she and Quinn would finally put their past behind them and do something mature for once, but how naïve Santana was too believe that bullshit.
Quinn's always had a problem with communication. Even when they were in high school, the blonde oddly kept to herself, so it shouldn't be too surprising that she still fails to show Santana any type of sign that she cares about her.
Santana has a hard truth to face; she's still sleeping with Cole, and Quinn, more than likely, has a few regulars down at Yale, or else she would've come up to New York for more weeks ago. Santana doesn't know what happened to Quinn, but she's either turned into a pathological liar, or she really is fucking her Pre-Law professor.
It makes Santana sick just hearing Quinn talk about it, so she hangs up, and then texts her not to call back until she figures out what she wants, because Santana's tired of busting her ass trying to make a connection that's not even there anymore, while Quinn is convinced that what went down between them was nothing more than just a night of freedom and fun.
Quinn calls back first, after their last argument, and Santana answers, because she knows Quinn hates being ignored. They discuss Santana's application for the summer session of NYU, but there's not really much to talk about anymore since Rachel helped her out with the majority of it.
Eventually, the conversation drains into awkward silences, and Santana can't stand those, so she says she has to go.
She has a hot date anyway.
--
Rachel comes out in these tight sweatpants and says they're going running, but Santana is definitely way too overdressed. She thought Rachel would do something normal for once, like treat her to dinner or something, but nope; Santana needs to learn never to expect the usual when it comes to Rachel Berry.
Santana's skeptical, but she jumps up from the couch and gets ready anyway, because Rachel's smiling all wide and conspiratorially.
"I want you to meet someone," Rachel says, after they've ran a whole two miles to this secluded little park in between two brownstones. It's a sad, broken down little place, with a crooked slide, one and a half swings, and a rusted bench, which this old man is sitting on as he feeds a flock of pigeons.
Basically, it's the creepiest shit Santana's ever seen. "Where the fuck are we?" she whispers into Rachel's ear, but Rachel just laughs and tugs on her hand. They near the old man feeding the pigeons, and he aims a toothy smile at Santana once he sees them approaching. “Rach, what I tell you about talking to strangers?"
Rachel ignores her with a slap to her shoulder and then says, "Sawyer, this is my best friend and current roommate, Santana Lopez. Santana, this is my park buddy, Mr. Sawyer McRoy."
The old man extends a wrinkled hand, and Santana stares at it for a moment, confused as to how Rachel even knows this guy, but she grabs his hand anyway, after Rachel clears her throat and pushes Santana forward. "It's nice to meet you, sir," she says, remembering her manners. It's been awhile since she's needed them. Like hell she's polite to those ungrateful cretins at Cobblestones.
It's freezing out here, and Santana's still sweating, so she is literally freezing her ass off in her Cheerios sweatshirt, but it does get a little bit warmer once they all squeeze together on the bench.
Rachel starts telling Sawyer about her day, and it only takes Santana about thirty seconds of listening to them blabber back and forth for her to realize this is a daily occurrence. And here Santana thought she knew everything about Rachel's day. How wrong she was about a lot of crap.
Turns out Sawyer is the sickest old man ever. Sick as in cool, which Santana has to explain to Sawyer after he turns a pale white color at the thought of catching pneumonia, which isn't too far out of the realm of possibilities if he makes a habit of sitting out here in the fucking cold every day.
Santana joins in on the conversation after awhile, and she kind of wishes her abuela had worldly views like Sawyer. Well, she guesses that's what's bound to happen when you live in such an open-minded place like New York City for so long as opposed to Lima, Ohio.
--
Henry stops by for coffee, but Santana can tell he's here for more than just a caffeine fix by the look on his face.
"So, you've neglected to tell me," he says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Santana's about to tell him to never do that again, because it's fucking weird, but before she can get the chance, he asks, "How'd that thing go with the girl you might have feelings for?"
Santana scoffs, because that's old news. "That's over and done with. It was stupid to even think I ever had feelings for Quinn anyway, given our fucked up history and the thousands of times she screwed me over."
She's been thinking about it a lot lately—more than she'll ever admit aloud, because she is not that broken up over this—and she's come to a reasonable conclusion. The only reason Santana was so suddenly enamored with Quinn was because she was just projecting her heartbreak onto her friend after finding out about Brittany and Sam.
It's always been about Britt anyway, so why would it be any different now? Santana is nothing but consistent, after all.
She hefts herself up on to the counter and swings her legs over the edge. Her boss is out today, so she has the whole store to herself. (Pat's here too, but whatever. He has no say over what she does.)
Santana shrugs. “Sometimes it's just nice to pretend to like someone you know can never hurt you too bad, you know.”
“Um, I guess, but hold up.” Henry leans against the counter beside her. “Who is Quinn?"
"The crazy psycho I wasted a whole three weeks thinking I liked just because she fucked my brains out." Santana hears laughter coming from the storage room in the back, and she rolls her eyes. Pat is such a moron.
"Quinn," Henry drawls, eyes narrowed on the floor in realization. “She’s the friend you were referring to? I thought you were talking about—“
“This is un-freaking-believable. Do you not listen to me when I'm speaking?"
Henry just plasters on a fake smile and nods, because of course he listens, which you'd expect, right? He's that awesome gay boy who's dating one of her roommates, and gay boys love gossip and drama. Stereotypes are call stereotypes for a reason. They're not always true, and Santana needs to remember that the next time she starts pouring her heart out to somebody she just met a few months ago.
Rachel would've listened to her yap on for hours about Quinn Fabray, no matter how much she disliked the girl in high school, and speaking of Rachel, here she comes now. She greets Henry, who's face is even redder than usual, and then asks for a refill, because she knows anything goes when the boss is out.
Santana grabs her cup and gets to it as Rachel asks, "So, what’s going on over here?”
Both Santana and Henry rush to sputter, "Nothing," and Rachel squints her eyes in confusion at the both of them before reminding Santana that her college application is due soon.
Santana's eyes cut to Henry as Rachel walks to her table in the back, and they both give each other strange looks. "You know something," she says, but Henry just shrugs with that stupid expression on his face before leaving the coffee shop.
Shaking her head, Santana laughs to herself, because she’ll get the truth out of him one way or another. Henry can hold water, sure, but he’ll soon let it drain, and when he does, Santana will be ready, because whatever he knows, it’s probably something juicy.
Though whatever it’s about, she hopes it has nothing to do with Rachel’s recently odd behavior. Santana still has a feeling Rachel’s lying to her about something. She doesn’t know what, exactly, but her physic Mexican third-eye is telling her it’s something really important, and possibly damaging.
As Santana wipes down the counter, she catches Rachel’s eye from across the room. Rachel smiles shyly, curling a strand of hair behind her ear before looking back down at her textbook, and Santana hides a smirk as she gets back to work.