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The air conditioning is broken.
It buzzes weakly, only a tiny amount of cool air being blown into the claustrophobic waiting room. The open window does nothing to get rid of the almost sticky heat that is stagnant in the air around Santana.
She's sweating, and she's so glad she remembered to put on deodorant. She's dressed in summer clothes- one of her dads t'shirts, several sizes too big and in a nice shade of blue that reminds her of her girlfriend's eyes, and a pair of soft basketball shorts that reach her knees, and are wide-legged with blue stripes down the sides.
Her hair is tied into two Dutch braids- her Mami did them for her. Santana's figured it's almost like a meditation exercise, doing her daughters hair every morning, in the same neat hairstyle she wore to grade school.
Maribel Lopez does it to feel closer to her daughter. Each time she tugs on the strands, it's her way of saying 'I'm here, Santana'.
Anyways.
The air conditioning is broken.
Santana has been coming to this therapist for a couple of months. And, to be honest, she thinks it's working. Sure, she still can't look at herself in the mirror, and every meal is a struggle. But she's actually eating. That's far better than she was doing a few months ago.
Her therapist is cool. She's not all wishy-washy like some of the therapists she went to at first- weird ladies who kept trying to hug her, and didn't understand her at all. Their offices were cluttered and stuffy, and the walls felt like they were closing in on Santana.
But Dr Williams is different. She's probably in her thirties, Santana figures, but she looks younger. And her office is clean and minimal: white walls and plain yet comfortable furniture. Also, she's very straight to the point. She doesn't waste her time dancing around a subject, she just asks the questions outright. It means that Santana gives her straight answers.
Her appointment was at a different time today. And her Mami wasn't able to pick her up straight away, since she was working a shift. And her Papi is out of town on a business trip, so he definitely can't collect her. It's too warm for her to walk home, so she was instructed to wait in the office for a while, until her Mami could take a break and come pick her up.
Santana is sitting, flicking through one of the trashy magazines, when the door to the waiting room is pushed open and none other than Quinn Fabray walks in.
It takes a while for her to notice Santana, who's sprawled across one of the sofas, her Croc-clad feet resting on the arm rest. But when she sees her former best friend, her eyes widen slightly, and her already pale face goes even paler.
Santana waves to her, and beckons her over. Quinn tentatively walks over, and sits on the chair that's just beside Santana's sofa.
"Q, hey. How are you?"
"Good. How are you."
Santana looks at Quinn. There's something slightly off about the other girl. Not that she doesn’t look good, she just looks… different.
Her usually straight hair has gone curly from the humidity, and a pair of sunglasses are marooned in the mass of blonde curls. She's wearing a black tank top and a long skirt, in white. Over this is a purplish shawl-cardigan situation. It’s unusual, especially for Quinn, but it works.
"Aren't you, like, way too warm." Santana blurts out, before her stupid brain manages to put two and two together- Quinn being in a therapists office, and Quinn wanting to cover her arms. She could kick herself, but by that time the words are already out, floating around the stifling room.
"Uhm, not really." Quinn mumbles.
"Sorry for asking. It's too hot. My brain isn't really functioning anymore."
"S'fine."
They sit in silence for a while, the only noise the pathetic whining of the air conditioning.
"I was waiting for the air con to break." Quinn says, looking over to Santana. The other girl has given up with reading the magazine, and has started to fan herself with it.
"Hmm?" Santana was almost asleep.
"I said, I was waiting for the air con to break. This summer has been so hot, and it was already on the verge of breaking down."
"Yeah. I tried to tell Dr Williams, but she didn't listen. She doesn't have to sit out here for hours, sweating her ass off."
"I know. We should, like, petition or something. For a new A.C." Quinn suggests.
"Yes. Though, I'm hoping to be finished here by the time this heatwave is over."
A silence falls. Both girls are curious about what the other is doing there, though they would never dare to ask the other.
"What time is your appointment?" Santana asks her friend.
"Half past four."
"You're like, forty minutes early."
"Yeah, I walked."
"You walked? Q, you live on the other side of town. How have you not collapsed?"
"I stayed in the shade. Believe it or not, it's actually cooler in this room than my house."
Santana can believe that. Quinn's house is a stuffy old mansion, that was built before the guy who invented central heating and air conditioning was probably even born.
"What about you?" Quinn continues "what time is your appointment?"
"I'm done. But Mami is working, and she was worried I would pass out or get heatstroke if I was to walk home. So I need to wait for her to get a break, before she can get me home."
"Oh."
Quinn looks out the window, and Santana watches her friend. It's been such a long time since they last spoke. Their last words were probably "good luck." Before that, it was probably something along the lines of "fuck you." Santana thinks these two statements pretty much sum up their tumultuous relationship.
Santana misses her friend. She has Brittany now, of course, but she can't fill the Quinn-shaped hole in her heart. And it's times like this, when Santana feels very alone, that she wishes she had someone to talk to, other than her therapist. Brittany can't talk to her, she's been at a dance camp for most of the summer.
"Have you had a nice summer so far?" She asks Quinn.
"Mhm. I've not been out much, though. The only person I've really seen, since school broke up, is Dr Williams."
Santana remembers that Quinn wasn't in school for the last couple of weeks before the holidays started. She feels kind of guilty for not noticing until now.
"How's Brittany?" Quinn asks her. Santana nods.
"She's good. Uhm, she's at a dance camp right now. I've barely seen her this holiday."
"Are you two...something?"
Santana has been asked a variation on this question many times, by many people- Mercedes, Kurt, Rachel, even Finn. And each time she's denied it, and acted like it's the stupidest fucking question on the planet.
But she doesn't want to lie to Quinn.
"Yeah. She asked me to be her girlfriend on the last day of school. There was a whole group of us down at the river, and we stayed till late. And she waited until it was just us, to ask." Santana smiles as she recounts the story. It seemed almost too good to be true. If she could get the balls to be open about it, that would be fabulous, but for now Brittany seems content with just them knowing. And Quinn knows, as well.
Quinn reaches across and rests her hand on Santana's. It's freezing, despite the heat.
"Shit, your hands are cold." She gasps. Quinn just laughs at her.
"I'm really happy for you. Both of you. If there's anyone who deserves love, it's you two."
"Aw, thanks Q. What about you? Anything going on in the love life of Quinn Fabray?"
"Nope. I'm going to focus on myself for now. I'm going to sort myself out, figure out what I want to do with my future, and then I might consider dating. Maybe."
"Wow. That's very...Quinn Fabray of you. Not letting stupid things like love get in the way."
Quinn lifts her hair up from her neck, and fans it with her hand. Santana can't help but look at the exposed area. And so, she can't help but notice the little white and pink lines, small but in multitudes. They appear to start at the base of Quinn's jaw, and go to her neck, where they disappear into the neck of her shawl thing.
"Your neck. What happened?" Santana asks.
In a flash, Quinn drops her hair and returns her hands to her lap, where they twist around each other in endless circles.
Scared green eyes meet soft brown eyes.
"You don't need to answer. I just- I just noticed, and I was wondering if you were okay."
"No. It's fine that you asked. Dr Williams said that it will be healthy for me to confide in someone about what happened."
The air conditioning gives one last pathetic wheeze, then judders to a stop. The room is silent apart from Quinn's ragged breathing.
"I, uhm, I don't know how to say it." Her voice is small. Santana realises that Quinn reminds her of a scared child, and she has an overwhelming urge to hold the girl and tell her that it's okay.
"Don't worry about it. I’m ready whenever you are. We can talk about something else. Like, uhm, your mom."
Quinn's nose wrinkles, trying to figure out if Santana was serious, or just making a really, really, bad joke.
"Yeah. How's Judy doing?" She asks Quinn.
Santana is getting really fucking good at small talk. As long as it means she can keep talking to Quinn until she gets picked up, she can talk about moms and the weather and shit for days.
"She's fine. Uhm, she's been doing lots of fundraisers for church." Quinn tells her. Then she remembers that she's talking to Santana. The girl who would come for sleepovers and hold Quinn's hand while her parents screamed and fought downstairs. The girl who, after Quinn's mother drank too much and was horribly sick, helped Quinn clean everything up, even though the smell of vomit made her want to puke everywhere.
The girl who, on one occasion, had to help Quinn clean and bandage the cuts on her back from where her 'daddy' had hit her with his belt.
"She's been, uhm, going to AA. And I think she's getting better. Like we talk. A lot more. And she's the one who suggested I start going to therapy. She's been going as well, but someplace else. And she's been attending all these support groups, for people like her." Quinn tells her.
Santana wonders what the 'people like her' means, but she won't ask.
"Uhm, how's Maribel doing?"
"She's great. Y'know, she's just always doing something. She's been great through all of this"- Santana gestures to the room-"as well. Real supportive and shit."
Quinn nods. "And your dad?" She asks Santana.
"He's fine too. He's been away on a lot of business trips. Between you and me, I don't think him and my mom are going to be together for much longer."
"Oh, Santana." Quinn's tone is sympathetic. Her hand is still on Santana's, and she squeezes it gently. But Santana just shrugs.
"It is what it is. It's not like they're going to act on it, incase I manage to get more fucked up. They'll probably wait until I've graduated."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. I'm not angry or anything. Kinda sad, maybe, but that's all."
"That's not why you're here, though, is it?"
"Nope. Guess again."
It's a joke, of course it is, but Santana can see how Quinn examines her.
"It's the eating thing again." Santana confesses. She hates to use official terms. That makes it so much bigger, and so much scarier. Giving it a small name makes it seem small.
Quinn just nods in response.
"I thought so. Did Coach Sylvester get in your head again, about the diet shakes?" Quinn remembers the disgusting shakes that her cheer coach had prescribed. They had the desired effect, but they tasted disgusting.
"No. It was a control thing. Like, I guess the thing with my parents kind of had something to do with it? I don't know. But everything was falling apart, and the only thing I had was eating. Or not eating. And over-exercising, and making myself throw up sometimes." Santana's voice is shaky, but she gets control of it. She's spent too much time crying over it. Not today.
"That's awful. But I'm really happy that you're here, and you're getting help for it.”
“It feels stupid, though. Like, all the other Cheerios managed to keep it under control. But I’m the only one who took it too far, and actually got told to come here.”
“By who?”
“Coach Sylvester, if you can believe it. She feels bad, I guess. Plus I fainted at four practices in a row, breaking the record of two. That was a pretty big red flag as well. So she phoned my Mami, and then when Mami asked me about it I broke down. Got off the plane at the other side of Nationals and came straight here.
Santana is good at talking about this. Her Mami makes her update her after every session. She’s found the right tone- self-deprecating, jokey (to a certain extent), but still including all the serious stuff, to balance it out.
“Have you stopped sending Rachel death threats?” Quinn recalls the trip back to Lima, in which Santana spent her time making multiple fake Twitter accounts, in order to send hate.
“Yeah. She knew it was me, and phoned my Mami to tell her. I got my phone confiscated. I mean, I had already run out of all my good insults. And there were some real stars in there.” She smirks to herself, remembering her creative insults that she had written down and saved for later.
“You’re different.” Quinn observes. Santana tilts her head to the side.
“I am?”
“Yeah. You’re happier. More relaxed. And you’ve not insulted me.”
“Q, you’re in therapy. I’m mean, but I’m not completely heartless.”
“Still. There’s something different. And I like it. Maybe it’s being here in therapy, or it’s because you and Brittany are finally together.”
“That’s a secret, by the way. Us being together. I’m not ready to face…all that.”
“I won’t tell anyone. It’s your business. I’m just happy you’ve stopped dicking around with every male in the New Directions.”
“Quinn Fabray swore.” Santana cackles like a child, and Quinn rolls her eyes.
“You’ve changed too.” Santana says, stopping her giggling and looking at Quinn.
“Good way or a bad way.”
“Good way, I think. I’m honestly not sure about this whole hippy-grandmother thing you’ve got going on, but I like it.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
They fall into silence again. Quinn’s hands twist over each other, and Santana resists the urge to reach out and pull them apart.
“My father threw me through the china cabinet.” Quinn announces.
“Jesus Christ! Couldn’t you have given me a bit of warning. I know I said I was ready whenever you are, but…that’s a lot to dump on me. In a good way. Like, this is positive trauma dumping.”
“Please never be a therapist. That’s not how you’re supposed to react.” Quinn replies, her tone sarcastic, but she’s smiling. Santana reacted in the way she was hoping- not going all sad and frowny and acting like Quinn was made of glass, but by joking along.
“Seriously, though, are you okay? He’s not still living with you guys, is he?”
“No. That was the final straw. Judy was trying to sort of keep things normal between them, to avoid any conflict.”
“The man who kicked out a pregnant sixteen year old? Q, he is the conflict.”
“Well, we know that now. He was over for dinner, and usually I avoid it, but I forgot he was coming until he was actually there. Long story short, I refused to repent for my bastard child, he grabbed me by the hair and threw me through my mothers vintage china cabinet.”
“That’s why you’re covering your arms?” Santana’s voice is soft, but not patronising.
“Mhm. And like, there were some things there from before, but the worst was done by the cabinet. I’ve got a few more weeks before the stitches are supposed to heal, but it’ll be months before the scars go completely. It’s been a nightmare, to be honest. I’ve not been able to go outside without something covering my arms. And it’s been so hot, I’ve melted.”
“Is your mom making you cover your arms?”
“No. I am. You know what it’s like here. News travels fast. And I don’t want to spend senior year being poor little Quinn Fabray. Not again.”
“You said there was stuff from before.” Santana points out, holding eye contact with Quinn.
“Uhm, yeah. It was stupid, but I just felt…” she trails off, trying to put her huge feelings into such small words. But Santana shakes her head.
“You don’t need to explain yourself. As long as you’re here, and talking about it to someone else, then you don’t need to recount it for me. Unless you really want to?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You should, like, totally reinvent yourself if that happens. Change your style. Who knows, this whole ensemble might be the new thing.” Santana suggests, after a few minutes of silence.
“I was thinking about dying my hair.” Quinn runs a hand through the shoulder length strands. Santana still has the distinct memory of her and Brittany cutting Quinn’s hair. How Quinn had smiles, genuinely, for the first time in weeks. Even though it was uneven, and the scissors they used could barely cut through paper.
“I love it.” She had breathed.
Of course Quinn Fabray’s hair would grow stupidly fast. Now it sits on her shoulders, in loose ringlets.
“You should totally dye your hair.” Santana confirms. Quinn nods.
“I’m not sure what colour yet.”
“How about pink? You always wanted to dye your hair pink when you were younger.”
“The only thing stopping me was my father.” Quinn’s eyes are faraway.
“I could help you.” Santana offers, but Quinn shakes her head.
“I think this is something I’m going to need to do by myself.”
The door opens, and Santana’s mom walks in, wearing her scrubs and with sunglasses perched on top of her head. She takes in the sight in front of her- her daughter with her once-best friend, now sworn enemy, sitting right beside her.
But Quinn isn’t the same Quinn that Santana has been fighting with in hallways. No, now she’s the Quinn that would come for sleepovers and insist on cooking breakfast. The girl who would braid Santana’s hair for her at cheer practice, when Maribel was too tired or too busy to do it.
“Quinn, mija, it’s so lovely to see you.”
“You too, Maribel. It’s been so long.”
“Well, don’t be a stranger. I’ve had enough of this one moping around, complaining about how all her friends are on holiday.”
“Harsh, Mami. Look, can we go? I’m sweating my ass off.”
“Yeah, I’m in a rush anyway. Quinn, is someone coming for you?”
“My appointment’s soon.”
“Okay, mija, you look after yourself. Goodbye for now, but I hope to see you soon.”
“Goodbye Maribel. Bye Santana.”
“Bye Q. See ya later.”
Quinn watches mother and daughter walk out. Maribel walks fast, talking rapidly in a mix of English and Spanish. Santana slopes along beside her, occasionally answering the questions with one word replies. They disappear out the door and into the sunlight of late afternoon.
“Quinn? It’s time for your appointment.”