I’ve been been writing for all kinds of fandoms for almost 2 decades. These are things I learned along the way that may help someone else.
•Your first work is just as important as your most recent.
•Taking time to make the story feel like it has a good flow is okay.
•Taking your time for it to be the story you imagine in your head is important.
•If you need a break for 6 days, 6 weeks, 6 months or even 6 years that’s alright too!
•Don’t let people pressure you into feeling like you’re not doing enough. It’s your work. It’s time out of the life. It’s important to you.
•I also recommend even if you change fandoms or your writing style has changed, keep back ups of old works. Helps you see how far you’ve come. You might also get a hit of nostalgia and want to reread your work.
Oh my, it's so hard to chose ONE song for fanslide when every love song reminds me of Brittana. But here I go: Do I Wanna Know - Arctic Monkey
x
She knows she shouldn’t call.It seems like a good idea, though, calling her. Somewhere in her fuzzy mind, she imagines dialing her number. It’s familiar in a way that staring at it a hundred times while intoxicated without ever hitting the Call button can be. She’s memorized it. But it’s not a good idea. With the amount of alcohol in her system, there’s no telling what she’d say- confess- and she has no idea how the other girl would respond. It’s driving her crazy, not knowing the other girl’s feelings. She wishes she could just tell her-But-The phone sits on her table, treacherously within reach……and Santana pours herself another drink.
more fire island pleeeeease? do it for america. song: all my days - alexi murdoch
Parts one, two, three and four.
The storm passes. You’d dressed after, in case, but you’d clung, the whole night, to Brittany. You’d clung to her, as you’d heard the windows rattle on the other side of the boards. You’d clung to her, as the house, it seemed to shake with every whip of wind, every slash of rain. But it passes, and in the morning, you emerge from her tucked away home. You walk with her, as she surveys the damage around. She holds your hand, when she can. She helps you over fallen pine boughs, over shutters from who knows where, over puddles from rain, from ocean, from swollen bay. You watch, as brow furrowed, she checks over her boat. It’s safe, safe from damage. You help her, gathering up strewn furniture, improperly tied, by people less prepared than your Brittany. Your Brittany. Because she is now, after the night before. She’s yours, heart, body, soul.
Once the outside of her home, it’s cleaned up a little, you know where you have to go. Your home. The bar. The marina. Brittany, she’s nervous about it, you can tell. She knows, like you do, what’ll happen, if it’s damaged beyond repair. She knows, this new life you’ve decided on, it can be gone, in an instant. That thought, it makes your stomach feel like stones. It makes your heart, race, race, race, until you feel Brittany’s hands on your shoulders, in the thicket of low brush, pulling you, close, close, until her breath tickles your face, and you have to freeze, just to breathe all of her in.
“I love you.” She breathes, the soft wisps of seabreeze in the aftermath of the storm almost carrying her words away. It’s the first time she’s said it to you in the daylight. It’s the first time that you don’t hear the Hail Mary’s in your head drowning it out.
“I love you too.” You watch, as her face, it shows this sort of wonderment. Saying it in public, or, at least outside, it’s different than speaking it beneath the blankets. Still though, you feel it. You feel it so deeply that it seeps into your bones. Brittany Pierce, your starry eyed fishergirl, she’s something else entirely. She’s something so deserving of all your love. “We need to go and see if it’s still there.”
“The storm was bad, but not near ’s bad ’s thirty-eight. We’ll take care of whatever needs to be taken care of, alright? Together.” Hidden away, she presses her palm to your face, and she kisses you, gently, gently, her eyelids fluttering against yours. “Don’t worry your pretty head.”
“Okay.” You concede. The idea of together, it thrills you. It thrills you in a way that you know it shouldn’t, but, it’s Brittany, and really, you can’t take your time thinking about all the shouldn'ts.
She keeps a small distance between the two of you, as you step over branches and broken boards along the walkway. Your hand, it feels cold, strange, when it’s not in hers, but you know it can’t be, and instead, you hold her closer with your heart. When you reach the bay, you gasp, taken aback by what’s in front of you. The water, it’s risen, higher than you’ve ever seen, spilling up over the edge of the dock. The harbor, it’s empty, everyone’s boats somewhere in dry land, hopefully in shape as good as Brittany’s. And people, there are people everywhere, in a way you hadn’t expected. Greeting each other, checking on each other, already clearing away the branches and debris that litter what is essentially your front yard. It’s a community, in the way you’d only sort of experienced in church on Sunday mornings. A community, where everyone who can is ready and willing to help each other. Briefly, you make eye contact with Brittany, before you approach the bar, and when you see it, door ajar, you swallow hard.
“Miss Lopez.” Mr. Edja steps through, looking as if he’s catching his breath, seeing you there. “You’re alright.”
“I am, sir.” You nod, hands smoothing your skirt nervously as you meet his eyes. “Brittany was kind enough to invite me into her home last night.”
“On the water is no place for anyone, let alone a newcomer.” Brittany steps to your defense, in case you’re in trouble for leaving the bar unattended.
“Of course, of course.” He straightens his crooked tie. “My apologies for not knowing the weather before I left you here. I’m glad you had a friend who knew better than I did.”
“So’m I.” You look at Brittany, out of the corner of your eye. Her distrust of outsiders, it’s apparent, when she takes in your boss. He’s from the city, just like you are, but his visits, they’re few and far between. He takes the money of the islanders with no problem, but he’s not one of them, and leaving a girl in a storm, leaving her girl in a storm (you shiver, the good kind, at that possessive preposition), that’s not the way of the people here. “Made sure she was real safe, my house is smack in the middle of the island, furthest distance from both the ocean'n the bay. Pop’s runnin’ the ferry already then?”
“Captain Pierce’s girl?” He eyes her, much as she eyes him, two people, from different worlds, and you in the middle.
“Right, sir.” She wipes a hand on her trousers and then extends it to him. “Brittany, Brittany Pierce.”
“Lawrence Edja. Your father says you frequent my bar, you and your crew. Impressive feat for a woman, handling a boat full of fishermen.”
Impressive feat for anyone, you think, though you bite your tongue. This man, he was kind enough to give you a job, he’s a friend of your father’s, and you won’t make an embarrassment of yourself, or risk losing your employment, as much as you want to speak out against his obvious disbelief that Brittany is capable of all she does.
“How’s the building, Mr. Edja?” You speak instead, your fingers twitching, that longing for Brittany’s hand in yours not fading.
“Lucky, it seems. A few missing shingles, and a broken window, but it seems structurally sound.”
“Ya checked the roof, then?” She asks him, and you picture her, as she was earlier, trousers and shirt sleeves rolled as she claimed a ladder to check her own.
“I’ve got a fella coming to do it tomorrow, looks good from here.”
“Ain’t safe, ‘specially if Santana’ll be sleeping beneath it. Let me climb up and check it out for myself. If it’s wrecked, I know a guy that’ll fix it up for you quick.”
“You fix roofs too?” Mr. Edja raises a suspicious brow, but Brittany shakes her head.
“I know if they’re gonna fall down or not, but I don’t do the fixing. Leave that t'Mr. Chang, finest carpenter on the island.”
“Chang? Is that—” He begins, but Brittany’s glare cuts him off.
“He’s an American citizen, and his pop’s from China, not Japan, for that matter. Already been here two generations. Ain’t his war my brother died for, sir. He’s got a boy over there too, fighting on our side, and one who works for me, taking on his own war effort on the Homefront ‘til his number comes up, sir.”
You hear the sarcasm in that final word, but you don’t blame her for it a bit. They may not have rounded them up in camps out on this coast, but you see it in the streets of your own city back home, men, women, children of any type of Oriental ancestry, being spit on, having obscenities spewed at them, ever since the day after Hawaii was bombed, and your country had gotten tangled up in this unending war. Mr. Edja doesn’t speak another word, perhaps because Brittany’s a woman, since you’d seen him put boys in their place and make them quake in their boots back when your father was home. He just nods at her request to check the roof, to check that you’re safe, you feel your heart catch in your throat at the thought of that, and you force yourself to tear your eyes from her lithe frame as she climbs the metal rungs attached to the building. Knowing you’ll give yourself away, you retreat into the bar. You mop water from the floor, you check, finding that no glasses have been broken, and you sink against the bar, relief finally coming, and making your whole body shudder. The building is still standing, it hits you then. Your livelihood, the place that lets you stay here, here with Brittany, the storm didn’t take it out to sea.
Time moves slowly, as Brittany works above you. She’s got other things to do, you know. She’s got to check on the Changs, the Karofsky’s, the Abrams’, who’s son is the only one on Brittany’s crew who’s yet been drafted, and now that the storm’s passed, she needs to get her boat back in the water and ready to be out there, fishing, as it’s intended. But she’s put you first, above all that, and for the first time, like in all the books you’ve read, you truly understand what it means to swoon. Your fingers, habitually, play with the thin gold cross around your neck, but you forget the verses about sinners and repentance that your abuelita so favors. You forget about them, and instead, as your good hearted, beautiful fisher girl taps at shingles above you, you think the good ones, you think love is patient and kind, you think there is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment.
You hear her and Mr. Edja speaking outside, when she comes down. The roof is fine, everything’s fine, and when he offers her a whiskey on the house for her kindness, you hear the slight hesitation in her voice, before she declines, and tells him she ought to get on, but peeks quickly inside to wave a quick goodbye to you. The day drags, really, as you sweep the floors and wash the windows, as Mr. Edja washes sand away from the dock and returns the wooden chairs to the deck in the back, before checking that you’re alright one final time, and returning on the six o’clock ferry. You don’t open the bar that night, you know there’s no point, really, everyone’s recovering and repairing, but Spencer and Mason, the bar boys, come in to help you with inventory, and to get ready for the next day. Around eight, you send them home, and you realize, beyond the soft-boiled eggs and toast Brittany offered you early this morning, you haven’t eaten.
Heading up to your apartment for the first time, you’re glad to see it’s all intact, and you set about making yourself a little dinner. You’ve just about got the water up for dried pasta, when the tinkle of the doorbell you’re not sure has ever been rung jars you. Unwilling to leave the stove unattended, you turn off the gas, and you smooth down your hair, hurrying down the stairs to answer the door. When you do, there’s Brittany, dirt streaked across her face, pants ripped, and a big grin on her mouth.
“Evenin’, pretty lady.”
“Hi.” Your breath catches at the sight of her. You can’t explain it, this being in love thing, but your heart hammers and your hands sweat a little. “You want to come in?”
“I was hopin’ so, but I don’t want to interrupt, if you’re busy.”
“Not at all.” You smile at her, you wonder if she sees the moons in your eyes. “I was just making some dinner, nothing fancy, but there’ll be plenty, if you’d like some pasta.”
“I was gonna see if I could pull some scallops up from the bay, if ya wanted to join me. But tryin’ your food? That sounds even better.”
As you lead her upstairs, you realize that she’s never been inside your apartment, and though you keep it tidy, you suddenly find yourself getting self-conscious about the place. Brittany, luckily, doesn’t seem to notice. She compliments the place, before taking you up on your offer to wash up in the bathroom, and then siting herself right down at your little table, making herself so much at home that your heart, it sings inside of your chest. She watches you, as you open jars of cannellini beans and stewed tomatoes, canned from the Victory Garden on the rooftop at home, as you quickly and carefully chop an onion, as you stir it all in a saucepan, channelling, as best you can, Mrs. Rosetti, from the apartment next door to you in the city. You’re just about done, the pasta near boiled, and the aroma of tomatoes filling the whole apartment, when you feel a presence standing behind you, a hand on your hip, and you inhale as much air as you can, because Brittany in your space, it makes you dizzy, Brittany in your space, especially while you’re doing something so…domestic, it intensifies this deep longing for thing things you’re not quite sure you’ll ever be allowed to have together.
“Smells like ya cook as good as your Mama.”
“When have you—“ You begin, then you stop, remembering the meal you shared the night before, sitting at her table in her little house in the middle of the island, and your cheeks heat. “Oh, of course.”
“Am I so forgettable?” She teases you a bit, and you feel her front press into your back, her lips graze your hairline. It shakes you, the way she touches you, body and soul. It shakes you, how much you want her, not just physically, but, like this, in your kitchen, as you hold a wooden spoon in your hand, with her long blonde hair let down, so it falls just above the swell of her bottom.
“No.” Your voice is more raspy even than normal in your dry throat, her lips serving as quite a distraction. “You’re not. You’ll never be.”
“Good, I’m glad for that.” The vibrations of her speech thrum through your body, and after stirring the mixture in the pan once more, you cock your head to the side, finding her lips, kissing her, kissing her, deep, deep, the way you haven’t been able to since naked beneath the blanket the night before. Her fingers tickle your side, your free hand, it tangles in her hair, and when she finally pulls her head back, you’re weak in the knees. “Thanks for lettin’ me up here, and for sharin’ your food with me tonight, Santana. Haven’t eaten since breakfast this mornin’, it’s been a day for sure.”
“I haven’t either, truth be told, I forgot about food. But I’m glad that you came when you did, I’m glad I could do this tonight, and…take care of you, like you’ve been taking care of me.”
“What do you mean?” Brittany’s brow furrows in question. “I haven’t done all that much of anything.”
“Letting me stay with you, checking the roof today…I just appreciate all that a lot, Brittany.”
“That was nothin’.” She shrugs it off quickly, and you close your eyes, thinking of how she does that when her hands are in her pockets, instead of around your waist, and love it as you do the other way, you’re sure you like it more as she is now. “And besides, my motives weren’t all selfless with that. Keepin’ you here is awfully important to me.”
“As long as I can manage it, I’m sticking around.” You try to sound nonchalant, but your words, they feel weighty, your words, they almost beg her. Where just a day-and-a-half ago, you’d struggled with the decision to return to this desolate island, now, leaving scarcely seems like an option at all. You’re rooted here, not so much to the bar, but to her, her presence, stronger, even, than the call to the ocean that you’d only read about in storybooks. “And as much as I can manage, I’d like to take care of you, selfishly, or unselfishly, doesn’t matter much to me.”
“I think, love, that maybe we oughta take care of each other. You’ve been helpin’ with all them babies your whole life, and I’ve been takin’ care of Pop and my brother, since nearly before I could walk. So, if we share the taking care…”
“I think, I think I’d like that quite a lot.”
You press her lips, just gently to Brittany’s, before you have to disentangle yourself to drain the pasta, thinking, thinking hard, of helpmeets and things you’d never, not in your wildest dreams, imagined could be another woman. But here you are, with Brittany, cooking dinner, and feeling, more than ever, like this is the way you could live out your days. Not with the boy downstairs that your mother thinks could be a good match for your. Not with the son of the nurse at the hospital that your father wants you to court. Not in an apartment on the Bowery, with a mess of kids, like your Mama. But here, here in this place, on this island between the Great South Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Here, where you hear waves and crickets at night, and where this girl, this gorgeous girl, this girl who smells like saltwater and sunshine kisses you in the kitchen, and holds your hand beneath the stars. It’s all you shouldn’t want, and it’s all you ever have.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
madcowmama's 2014 Fanslide Extravaganza
madcowmama
Summary:
Brittana. A compilation of 100-word drabbles (and one that has 225 words) prompted by tumblr users with songs. Each "chapter" is separate - separate time, separate world possibly - and may have little to nothing to do with the others, other than Brittana.
Can I tell you, I was coming home from work today and The Lucky One came on (you know, from the Red album) and I suddenly needed this as a Brittana fic, but there is only ONE person's voice I could see it in...
Santana looks up and sees her name in lights on the marquee.
Well, not her name. Not Santana Lopez.
But still.
Her name.
A dream come true.
A dream, really.
But so, so different than she’d ever imagined.
All she wanted to do was sing. To create.
To be an artist.
All she’s dealing with is business. Celebrity.
It’s not like what she thought.
It never is.
“We’re going to be late! Come on, out of the car!”
Her manager urges her forward into the throng of people on the red carpet.
Being famous, being famous isn’t anything she was ever prepared for.
Xx
“So Rosario, this is a big leap for you to be doing a dramatic film like this… what made you choose this project.”
“I just loved the idea, I like a challenge.”
“And how does your boyfriend Noah Puckerman feel about all this? You were in the French Riviera shooting for months.”
Santana struggles not to roll her eyes. Puckerman is hardly her boyfriend. He is a toy. Celebridating is the term Kurt used. It’s supposed to be mutually beneficial.
Puckerman is getting more out of it than she is.
She’s hot.
She’s in demand.
He’s fading fast.
Sure he’s fun in the sack when there’s enough alcohol in her bloodstream to ignore the huge red flag in her heart.
But… he’s nothing.
“Oh, he loved it. It’s a great place to vacation, you know.”
Her manager ushers her to the next reporter waiting for a five second interview.
The same old questions.
Who she’s wearing. How she ended up in a dramatic film. Does she think she’ll be nominated for any awards. Where is Noah Puckerman?
On and on and on.
Xx
“Ok, Hummel, enough. I made my appearance, I’d like to go home now.”
“You can’t go home… everyone is here to see the film.”
“Yeah. I’m in it, I know what happens.”
“This is a big moment for you, you should be embracing this.”
“I’m just tired, Kurt. I need a break.”
“Santana, you’re lucky that you keep getting work. Other people would killlll for this work.”
“I know.”
Xx
Another couple weeks go by and the start of a new project.
Santana should be honored to be performing at the Super Bowl, but mainly she’s just nervous.
Not to mention her name did actually get pulled from an envelope on the morning of Golden Globe nominations.
It’s all…. a rush.
She’s lucky.
She knows she’s lucky.
She just doesn’t feel it.
All she feels is stress.
Xx
The directors for the half time show sit her down at the table for the final round of backup dancer auditions.
It’s boring. Tedious.
She likes to be in control of her staff, her show, but this part, this part is always hard. Holding someone’s hopes and dreams in the palm of her hand.
The third round of eight file into the room.
Santana looks up and meets blue eyes.
Xx
She flicks through the pile of headshots in front of her until she finds the same blue eyes.
Brittany S. Pierce.
She doesn’t even need to see the other side, to see the experience, the credentials.
She can see it with her own two eyes in front of her.
This girl.
This girl moves like water.
Air.
She’s amazing.
Santana signals to the director and he highlights a name on the list.
She’s got her first dancer.
Everyone else, everyone else will fall into place.
Xx
Rehearsals are brutal.
It’s only a 14 minute show, but it’s so big.
So much.
And it’s on top of everything else.
All the interviews for the awards season.
All the dresses to try on.
All the calls to return.
All the luncheons and appearances.
It’s a whirlwind.
She’s lying on the floor of the darkened dance studio when the door opening startles her.
“Oh, sorry… I didn’t know anyone was in here. Rosario?”
“Huh?” Santana looks up and sees those blue eyes.
Her heart stutter stops.
“Oh. Hi.”
“What are you doing in here alone?”
“It’s the only place that’s quiet lately.”
“Ah.”
Brittany puts her bag down by the mirror and starts to stretch against the bar.
Santana can’t keep her eyes off those long legs.
She glances up and catches Brittany’s eyes.
Brittany’s eyes seeing her. Brittany’s eyes watching her watch.
There’s a small smirk.
Brittany leans closer to her knee and stretches her opposite arm over her head.
Santana wants to look away.
But she can’t.
She never can.
She doesn’t stand a chance.
Xx
“Do you mind if I work on something while you’re in here? I like this place.”
“Not at all.”
Santana scoots away from the middle of the floor to the corner.
“You don’t mind if I'm in here do you?”
“Not at all.”
A small smile again.
Santana feels flutters.
Flutters all over.
She doesn't have time for flutters.
Watching Brittany move across the floor though, makes Santana feel something she hasn’t in a long time.
Xx
“You hungry?”
The question breaks her out of a spell.
“What?”
“Are you hungry? Want to grab lunch? We don’t have rehearsal for another hour.”
Brittany is looking at her with hope in her eyes.
Santana’s stomach swoops.
“Sure.”
Xx
They find a small restaurant around the corner and Santana hides in the booth.
Brittany giggles at her, but she doesn’t understand.
No one really does.
The waitress looks at her with a twinkle in her eye but doesn’t say anything.
Her over-attentiveness speaks volumes.
Brittany talks about dancing, about how she came to LA, about where she lives.
She talks with her hands, with light in her eyes.
She talks with interest.
She is polite about asking questions. Letting Santana show her the parts of herself she wants to.
It feels more like a first date than any actual first dates Santana has ever gone on.
Brittany shifts positions in the booth and her foot nudges Santana’s calf on accident.
Santana watches cheeks redden across the table, feels her own breath stop for a beat.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Xx
They walk back to the studio in semi silence.
Santana feels the space between them.
It feels like so much more.
She wants to reach out and touch Brittany’s arm.
It’s too fast. Too soon.
Too random.
Brittany is a stranger.
“Hey… wanna grab lunch again tomorrow?”
Brittany’s voice is light. Happy.
“I’d love to.”
Brittany holds the door to the studio open for her. No one else is here yet.
Santana feels an arm reach around her shoulders.
Gets pulled into a hug.
She sinks into it even though she shouldn’t.
“You looked like you needed this today.”
Santana feels… everything. Brittany breaks the hug and spins around to her dance bag again.
Santana wonders if maybe she is lucky.
Xx
It goes on like that for the next five days.
Santana arrives early for rehearsal, to prep, to breathe.
Brittany is always there, or close behind.
She dances and Santana watches her.
Sometimes she beats Brittany to the punch, asks her out for lunch before Brittany can.
It’s easy.
It’s never been like this with anyone.
Santana feels relaxed in a way she never has before.
Even before Rosario Cruz.
Brittany makes her feel normal.
Xx
“Rosario…?”
Santana must have been spacing off because when she glances up at Brittany she’s met with concerned eyes and a forkful of spinach salad halfway between plate and mouth.
“It’s Santana.”
“What?”
“My real name. My real name is Santana. Rosario is my stage name.”
Brittany’s eyes flutter fast with different emotions before they melt.
She places her fork back down on the plate and extends her right hand over the table, offering it up.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Santana. I’m Brittany.”
Santana’s butterflies go crazy. She feels warm and oozy all over.
Only four industry people know her real name. Know Santana.
Since the fame and the lights. Rosario has taken over.
She hasn’t even told Noah.
“You’re not mad?” Santana takes Brittany’s hand and feels the sparks between them.
It’s an instant connection.
A click.
A knowing feeling that this, this is someone who is meant to be here in your life.
Brittany smiles and tilts her head to the side. It’s soft.
Beautiful.
She’s beautiful.
“Why would I be mad?”
“Well… I wasn’t necessarily honest with you.”
“Santana…. it’s ok. You have a very different life than most people.”
“I do.”
“I’ll never tell. Your secrets are safe with me.”
Santana feels that warmth flood her system again. Radiating out from her stomach, through her bloodstream.
Brittany…
“That, that means a lot, Brittany.”
“You can call me Britt.”
“Ok.” Santana’s smile is genuine. Like all the ones she’s given Brittany. “Thank you, Britt.”
Xx
“Will you come with me?”
Brittany looks up from her phone, they’re meeting outside the studio today. It’s been a month of working on the show but today is a rare day off.
A day of non-rehearsals but Santana had to see her.
Santana never feels the pull to see anyone.
But… Brittany.
“Wait, what was the question?”
“The Vanity Fair party after the Globes. I have to go after I stop at the Studio party. Will you come with me?”
“Like a date?” Brittany’s nose scrunches and Santana’s heart almost stops.
“Um, well… yes, like a date.”
She radiates happiness, and grabs Santana’s hand. “I’d love that.”
“You would?”
“I would. I’ve, um, been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for like a week now….” Brittany bites her lip and looks bashfully at her feet.
Santana doesn’t know what to do so she just giggles.
She actually giggles.
“Britt, we’ve kind of been going out almost everyday for like a month.”
“Yeah, but those didn’t count because they weren’t official or anything…” Santana’s smile feels like it might split her face. Brittany reaches up and taps her dimple. “I love that.”
“My dimple?”
“Yeah.”
“Britt, you keep saying all these cute things but you didn’t think we were going on dates? You’re an absolute goof.”
Brittany laughs, “I know. I’m a mess! I was being respectful!”
Xx
Santana calls Noah and calls off their arrangement. It wasn’t really working out for her anyway.
Her manager and Kurt both think it’ll give her more buzz before the awards.
Santana doesn’t really care.
She used to care about buzz, but now all she cares about is the warm feeling she gets whenever she’s around Brittany.
“You know, Santana… you were lucky to have a boy like that on your arm.” Kurt chides her while they rifle through dresses for the ceremony.
“You keep saying that Kurt, but I never really even liked him. How am I lucky if I don’t care?”
He looks at her with a smirk, “I suppose you’re right.”
Santana’s phone buzzes in her hand and she feels the smile creep on her face.
“Who’s got you smiling like an idiot over there? Is that why you wanted to call the arrangement off with Noah?”
“Perhaps.”
“Alright, Miss. I need gossip and I need it now.”
“It’s nothing… I’m.. It’s… I’m not sure yet, ok?”
“Alllllright…. but if someone’s got you smiling like that, better not let ‘em go without a fight.”
Santana doesn’t miss how Kurt leaves out the word ‘him.’
Xx
Santana’s picture is everywhere the next morning.
Her publicist spread the news that she and Puckerman are over. Pictures of the two of them together torn into two on every website, every magazine.
She doesn't really care.
She got out clean, she’s lucky.
Someone starts a rumor that he cheated on her. She doesn't know if it was her people or his.
It might make her look more sympathetic. Win her points with the public.
She shrugs it off.
Brittany calls her early.
“If we were going on dates… were you… did I?”
“It wasn’t real, Britt. Noah and I were never dating. It was for publicity.”
“I wish you would have told me….I hadn’t seen you two together for a while, I mean, I know things, I work in the business but…”
“I’m sorry I should have been more straightforward.”
“It’s ok. I was just confused. I didn’t want to be a homewrecker.”
“You’re not.”
Santana thinks she’s found the one and true good person in the whole damn industry.
Xx
Santana brings her mom to the Golden Globes.
She texts Brittany all night.
Brittany made her heart stop when she complimented Santana’s dress.
Santana wins her category. She shakes all the way to the stage.
She starts crying halfway through her speech.
This, this is something she never expected.
This, this is crazy.
Santana can’t believe that this is her life.
Xx
Brittany’s hug is big and warm at the party.
Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when she sees Santana’s dress in person.
Santana is tipsy. She keeps staring at Brittany’s lips.
She wants to lean over and kiss her so badly.
But she won’t. Not here.
Not like this.
They dance all night.
People congratulate her all night.
She meets her idols, she meets studio heads, she meets Meryl Streep.
It’s crazy and insane, and everything she always wanted.
Except when she looks at Brittany across the crowd, when she looks at Brittany everything else fades away.
Xx
She leads Brittany down the hall, into an unused ballroom.
It’s dark and there are chairs stacked everywhere.
Brittany smiles at her, big and wide.
She opens her mouth to speak, but Santana puts her finger up on her lips to still her words.
Brittany watches her.
Santana leans up and kisses her soft, sure.
The celebratory champagne bubbling through her system.
It feels good, right.
Brittany’s lips against hers feel better than she imagined.
She sighs into the kiss and feels Brittany relax, move, change the kiss.
And the night that was better than she ever could have imagined.
The best night, the best night gets even greater.
“I’ve been wanting to do that forever.” It’s her own voice, sounding foreign and far away.
“Me too.”
Brittany leans in and kisses her again.
Kisses her right good.
Xx
She sleeps until 2PM.
Her voice is raspy and gone when she wakes up.
Her manager will kill her. She doesn’t care. She has time to heal before the show.
She has a few texts from Brittany telling her she’s awake.
She types out a quick response, and a question.
Xx
Santana’s mom meets Brittany at a late lunch that afternoon. She wants Mami to meet Brittany while she’s in town.
Not as Santana’s girlfriend. Or anything like that.
Merely as someone Santana has come to trust, befriend, in this business.
A true friend.
They laugh and smile the whole meal while Santana nurses her slight hangover.
A few people congratulate her as she leaves the restaurant and her mother squeezes her arm tighter.
Santana knew she always wanted this for her. The fame, the success. The financial stability.
At least she can make Mami proud.
Xx
She has a few days off while her mom is in town. They meet up with Brittany once more to see a movie.
Brittany leans over and whispers a question in her ear when they hug goodbye.
Santana’s heart flutters again over the words.
Brittany wants to take her to dinner. Brittany wants to celebrate her accomplishment.
Brittany misses her at rehearsals.
Xx
“I think I’m gonna take a few months off.”
“What?” Kurt almost trips over his feet.
“I finished that other movie and I’ll do press for it. But after the Super Bowl, I’m taking some time off. I’m beat. I’m dead on my feet all the time.”
“Santana, you are white hot right now. Now is not the time!”
“It’s the perfect time, Kurt. I need to reassess. I need to figure out my life. Plus I don’t just want to say yes to crappy offers or crappy roles just because I have a pile of scripts on my desk.”
“Ok, but I’m not just talking about movies. Do you know who’s been calling you to write songs and produce?!”
“Yes.”
“Santana… don’t be an idiot! You can’t throw this away!”
“Who said anything about throwing it away? I’m taking a break.”
“You know how this business is…”
“I do. Which is why I need a break.”
“It’s like talking to a wall I swear.”
Santana lets him rant. She doesn't care.
Xx
Brittany picks her up for their date right on time.
She has flowers in her hand and a shy smile on her face. She looks nervous.
“Hi, B.” Santana leans in and kisses her cheek before pulling her inside. She sets the flowers in a vase of water and grabs her clutch, slides into her heels.
Brittany just stares.
The good kind of stare.
The overwhelmed kind.
“You look… um… I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this.”
“Used to what?” Santana has a smirk on her face from Brittany’s stuttering.
“You’re just… gorgeous. Like, all the time. Even when you’re not Rosario Cruz with the hair and the makeup.”
Santana swoons. “Can I tell you a little secret?”
“Yeah…”
“I’ve never felt as gorgeous as I do right this instant. You… you make me feel amazing.”
“San… that can’t be…”
“It is.”
Santana leans up and catches Brittany’s lips with her own. Soft.
Gentle.
A brush of a kiss.
She feels Brittany sigh against her. Feels a hand on her waist, on her cheek.
Feels Brittany move. Adjust to the kiss.
Santana deepens it.
When she pulls away Santana still can’t breathe.
It’s a beat.
Then two.
“It’s been too long… I’ve wanted to kiss you so many times.” Her voice sounds shaky. Moved.
“Me too.”
Xx
She takes Santana to a small restaurant tucked away from the rest of LA.
They share a cozy booth. A bottle of wine.
Brittany looks shy. Shier than ever.
“Why are you so shy tonight?”
“I don’t know. This is like, really official.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“It’s different.”
“Different good?”
“Definitely different good.”
Xx
Brittany drives her home. Takes the long way.
They share a happy silence between them.
Santana moves to change the radio station when her song comes on.
Brittany stops her hand. “Don’t you dare, I love this song!”
Santana rolls her eyes, but Brittany just laughs at her and places her hand on Santana’s thigh.
It feels warm, right.
Santana starts humming along to the song on the radio.
Brittany giggles and squeezes her thigh.
Xx
“Britt?”
“San?”
Santana flutters over the nickname.
“Will you come in?”
Xx
It’s slow.
Slower than ever.
Santana has never felt like this before. Everything is new and different.
Brittany feels different.
The way she kisses Santana… it makes her feel like Brittany sees all of her. Not just the facade.
The way she touches Santana… it breathes new life into her bones.
The way she looks at Santana… it steals Santana’s breath away.
Xx
“I’m taking time off.”
Brittany kisses the top of Santana’s head, strokes the length of her back.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Yeah. Take a break, honey.”
Honey.
Santana tickles Brittany’s stomach. “You’re not gonna fight me on it?”
“Why would I fight you on that. It’s your decision. Your career.”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s smart to take some time and reassess. You’ve had a crazy few months.”
“I have.”
“I mean. I know I haven’t known you long, but… I can see the wear and tear on you. I think some time off will be good.”
“What do you mean?”
Santana rolls off Brittany and faces her, head on the same pillow.
“Santana… you weren’t happy when I met you. I could see it in your face, your posture, your eyes.” Brittany stops and kisses her lightly on the lips. “It’s like you became a whole other person with me. You’re happier now. More relaxed. Less worried about life.”
“Well… I am less worried about life.”
“That’s good. Get out of your head a little bit.”
“You get me out of my head.”
Brittany looks shy, overwhelmed. She kisses Santana before she can say another word, and rolls her over underneath her.
Xx
Rehearsals for the game kick into high gear.
Santana starts to get nervous.
Brittany is with her most of the day every day, and almost every night in her bed.
Normally Santana would get sick of someone with all this time spent together.
But… Brittany.
She came out of nowhere. When Santana least expected it.
And she’s just here.
Xx
The show goes off without a hitch.
Santana doesn’t sleep for days leading up to it. Brittany worries about her, but Santana soothes her.
It’s always like this. Before the start of a tour.
Before the release of an album.
Before the release of a movie. It’s just… Santana.
“You’re seeing this side of me that no one else really sees, Britt. At least not this soon.”
“I know you’re saying that to calm me down about your worrying, but I’m kind of flattered.”
Santana smiles, “You should be.”
All the worrying was for nothing though, when Santana outperforms even her own expectations.
And Brittany, Brittany pulls her into the dressing room and kisses her like her life depends on it.
Xx
“Rosario, what are your plans? You’re coming off a huge few months….”
Santana laughs, puts on her polite interview face, “It’s been crazy, right!? I’m actually planning on taking some time off.”
“Time off? We need another album!”
“Ha, I’ve gotta get some songs written first. I figured it was a good way to clear my head and start working on them.”
“Well, anything that will get that awesome voice singing again is worth it my book.”
Santana thanks the interviewer before she’s pulled away again by her manager.
“Well, that could have gone worse.”
“I think it went pretty well actually. It’s not like I’m moving away to a farm in Nebraska and quitting the business. I just need to take a breather.”
Santana catches Brittany’s eye behind her.
Brittany isn’t walking the red carpet at this event, but she is here with Santana.
She’s here and Santana’s heart beats like crazy whenever she catches her eyes.
She likes this. The under the radar relationship.
She did the big fancy public one, the media cycle, the celebrity of it all.
But with Brittany, with Brittany she can be Santana.
Not Rosario Cruz.
Not a star.
Just Santana Lopez from Lima, Ohio.
A regular girl, with an extraordinary life.
Xx
Brittany pulls her aside at the party and kisses her softly on the cheek, caresses her elbow.
“You ready?” She knows Brittany is tired from her new gig. She’s been rehearsing nonstop.
“Only if you are. I’m ok.”
“Nah, let’s get out of here.”
Xx
Brittany curls into Santana as soon as she slides under the sheets. She hums into Santana’s neck and Santana feels warm all over.
“Too bad you can’t take time off with me. We could travel the world!”
“Yeah but everything I want is right here.”
Santana gasps.
Brittany sits up and looks down at her. Her blonde hair cascading down her face. “I love you Santana.”
“I… I… oh god, Britt I love you so much.”
Brittany smiles and leans down to kiss her and kiss her.
Santana can’t remember the last time she said that to someone.
Really said it.
But… Brittany.
She just knew.
She never stood a chance.
Xx
Santana spends the next month reading by her pool, writing down the lyrics that pop into her head, getting lunch with the people she never has time for.
She spends the nights cooking new recipes for Brittany to try.
Brittany’s smiles when she walks in the door after a long day of dance absolutely floor her.
She’ll tell Santana all about her day, about a new routine, about that bitchy assistant Becky.
And Santana wonders why she ever wanted anything more than this.
A life with someone she loves.
Xx
Her manager convinces her to do a few appearances.
She does. It’s not really work.
She presents at the Oscars.
She goes to Fashion Week.
She goes to the opening of the new big show in Vegas.
Brittany is always there with her, waiting in the wings.
Ready to take her place at Santana’s side once the work portion is done.
Xx
She starts writing for real. More diligently.
She tinkers on the piano with a few melodies.
She sits and dreams of lyrics.
Brittany’s star starts to rise.
Santana loves it.
Brittany is in demand. Brittany is working and working.
Brittany comes home with a smile on her face every night.
Santana starts to think that it’s right and perfect, that Brittany is making it.
Santana starts to think that it’s good to sit outside the spotlight.
To support her love.
Xx
“Baby?”
“Yes…?”
“I think I’m ready to head into the studio.”
“Really?! That’s good, San.”
“Yeah.”
You kiss her. A peck.
“You don’t look happy about it.” Brittany’s brow is furrowed with an unasked question.
“I am. I can’t wait actually. I just…. you’ll still be here right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well I’ve had the past few months off and you’ve been working and I’ve been home for you. And if I'm not home and I start getting busy again…”
“Oh Santana… you silly….” She squeezes her arms around Santana’s shoulders. “I’m here. I’m in it. I’m all in.”
Brittany’s smile is so sure, so genuine, so soothing, that Santana understands.
A continuation of this (http://leigh-kelly.tumblr.com/post/117900614874/fanslide-starlight-by-taylor-swift-500-word) since apparently I have a lot of feelings about 1940’s era Fire Island Brittana, and this is my favorite Billy Joel song. And let’s just pretend this is only 500 words, shall we?
You pray. Late, each and every night, when you stumble into your upstairs room, intoxicated on salt air and Brittany’s kisses, you drop down to your knees at the foot of your bed, and you pray like you’ve never prayed before. Your Mama, she hadn’t wanted you to come to this place. She’d warned you about booze and dishonest men, about lawlessness, in this isolated place. She’d made you swear you’d stay her good girl. But she hadn’t warned you about dark black nights with the water licking your feet. She hadn’t warned you about starry eyed fishergirls. She hadn’t warned you about the tingles that run from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair. You pray, though you know, there aren’t enough prayers in the world that can keep you from feeling the way you feel, that can stop the way you’re falling.
Each day, at five-thirty, the Alcott pulls up to it’s dock slip outside the bar. It’s Brittany’s boat, a Kettenburg, she’d told you proudly, though you have no idea what that means. You watch her, through the new panes of glass. You watch as she ties lines and orders the three boys on her crew. She walks with a swagger you’ve never seen on a lady. She commands respect. She hauls barrels of fish. She haggles with the buyers, always getting what her catch is worth, without batting her pretty eyelashes to do it. And always, always, she throws a smile through the window, because she knows you’re watching. She knows you’re waiting for when your time with her comes.
You’ve known her three weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. She stays at the bar each night until closing, drinking with her crew, and their rivals. She waits, in the shadows, as you close up each night. She holds your hand, and she kisses you on the beach out of sight. She lights a candle and she sits with you while you pull the letters from your mother and father out of your dress pocket and read them. She finds you pretty shells, and you lay them out on your dressing table when you you get home. She tells you all her secrets, and you tell her yours. She cries, for the first time, she tells you, over her brother, because she misses him so much, she dreams of bloodied bodies on a beach in France, and she’s scared that soon the war will take her friends too. Sometimes, she falls asleep in the sand, with her head in your skirts, and you take off her cap and stroke your fingers through her long blonde hair. You don’t know what you’re doing, you just know it’s wrong. But never, never in your life, has anything felt so right.
“Santana!” You hear her voice cut through a quiet Sunday morning. You sit on the edge of the dock, swinging your feet and eating the bread and jam you’d brought down for breakfast, and you turn in the direction on the sound. “There you are!”
“Good morning, Brittany.” In the daylight, you feel shy. In the daylight, everything seems bigger and scarier, somehow.
“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ya! We don’t go out on Sundays, And the bar’s closed. I wanna go somewhere, on the Alcott.”
“I…I’m not sure about that.” You shake your head. You’re hesitant about boats, about open water, even the ferry makes you queasy. But more than that, you’re hesitant about more daylight time with her. Because around her, you just, don’t know how you can control the urges inside of you.
“But Santana.” She reaches to offer you a hand up, and you take it. You feel those same electric sparks that are there after dark, and you look away from her. “Ya told me that you’ve never been clammin’ before, and today’s the perfect day.”
Your resistance is futile. Brittany grins at you. She steps onto her boat, and she leans against a beam, slipping her hands into her pockets and waiting. You can’t help it. You want to go. You hate that you do. But Brittany is magnetic. You can’t deny that you’re intrigued by spending a real day with the girl who kisses you in the dark. When she extends her hand again, offering you help onto the deck, you take a deep breath, you close your eyes, just for a second. You forget about priests and God and your mother, and you let her pull you aboard. You feel the press of her body against yours, before you pull away and smooth your skirt and you swallow hard. She looks at you in this way you can’t even comprehend, and again, you have to look away from you.
As she unties the lines, your eyes can’t leave her. Her fingers work quickly, you can see the muscles work in her back, and you’re lying to yourself if you say you don’t squeeze your thighs together at the sight. She switches on the motor, and a thrill rushes through you. She takes the wheel, and you’re nothing but impressed with her. She grew up here, on this island, not so far from where you did, in terms of miles, but truly a world away. She’s told you she’s never been in a school or a church, or any place of formal learning. She speaks different than anyone you know from back home. Her, and the others who’ve lived on the island for their whole lives. Who fish the water and farm the oysters. But here she is, navigating the water, as she does every day, here she is, doing something you could never dream of.
Out on the open water, Brittany takes your hand. It’s another thrill. You shouldn’t feel this way, but you do. You wish you could kiss her right there, as she looks out at the bay spread out before you. The brim of her cap shades her eyes from the bright sun, and you lift your hand to do the same. She pulls up, as close to shore as she can get and drops the anchor. When she kicks off her shoes and jumps over the side, landing in waist deep water, you’re skeptical. You certainly didn’t dress for swimming, you actually can’t swim at all.
“Hand me that burlap bag, would ya?” Brittany’s whole body wiggles in the water, and she pulls up her foot, holding a hard shell clam between her muddy toes. ”And come on down, the water’s great.”
“I think I’d rather just sit here.” You tell her, peering over the edge, and holding the bag so she can reach it.
“Aw, but where’s the fun in that? I’ve gone clammin’ hundreds’a times, I thought we came out here for ya to try.”
“I didn’t know…” You look down, sheepish, as she wades back toward you. “I though you did it on the shore, not out in the middle of the bay.”
“This is barely the middle. It’s a big bed, right here. And I didn’t bring any food, so if ya want lunch, we oughta get digging.” She grins. That grin. The one that makes you feel the things you’re not supposed to feel. You look around you, you see that there’s no one, no boats, no people, not for miles. It’s just you and her.
“I’ve never learned to swim.” You speak softly, and her grin, it fades into a soft, caring smile.
“Come here.“ She crooks her finger, and you shake your head. “C'mon, it’s barely up to my waist. I won’t let ya drown, Santana.”
You don’t mean to, but you swoon at her words. Sometimes, you look at her, and she feels like those heroes in the books you used to read, late at night, under the covers of your bed while your sisters slept soundly across the room. Like Heathcliff or Prince Charming. You look at her, standing in the water, her sleeves rolled up, the brim of her hat shadowing her face, and she looks dashing, handsome almost, but underneath, you know, she’s so much better. She’s soft, she’s beautiful, she’s something so much more than those storybook characters. She’s a woman. And she’s here, she’s real, and she’s extending her hand to you, and you swallow, trying to wet your dry throat.
“I promise, pretty lady. Take my hand.”
“Brittany.” You’re glad your cheeks are flushed from the sun, because then she can’t see the way they heat at her words. Then maybe, maybe you can still keep these bubbling feelings hidden in the daylight. You kick off your shoes though. You take her hand, you take it, and you yelp, just a little when you slip into the cool water of the bay.
“See, I told ya. It’s nice right.”
“It is.” You agree, though your skirt sticks to your legs, and the salty water stings your skin a little. You agree, because she’s still holding your hand. You agree, because the cool waves and the sun and the wet mud beneath your feet, it all feels better than you could gave imagined.
“Good. Now there ain’t no such thing as free lunch, so ya oughta start workin’ for it. Dig your toes in real good, there’s lots of the suckers down there.”
It’s the most fun you’ve ever had. You can’t even lie. You shriek with joy when you feel your first little neck, like Brittany tells you they’re called, and she wraps her at, around your waist to steady you while you stand on one foot to retrieve it. By the time you’ve filled the small bag, you’re filthy. Bay mud is streaked across your teeth, your white blouse is soaked through to your undergarments, but you don’t think you’ve ever cared less about it. Not when Brittany is tramping toward the shore. Not when she’s pulling a light from her breast pocket and starting a fire with the bramble she gathers and emptying the bag atop it. You sit on the shore and you watch her poke at it. You watch her take off her cap and let her hair tumble down to her waist. The gold of her tresses, is shines in the sunshine, she shines in the sun, and she grins again, pointing to the fire, where the shells have begun to pop open.
“We’re gonna have a feast of ‘em, that’s for sure.”
You burn your fingers and your tongue, pulling the briny meat from the piping hot shells, but it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted, truly, and Brittany beams when you tell her as much. She watches you as you eat, affection coloring her face, and it makes your insides twist. When the clams are gone, and your bellies are full, her hand finds a place to rest on top of yours in the sand. She kisses her shoulder, quick, like the secret this is, and you find her lips, just as quick, just as quiet. Your stomach drops, the same way it always does. The way you still can’t tell if it’s a good or a bad feeling, and she just laces her fingers with yours and leans back.
“They say there’s gonna be a bridge there in a few years, ya know.” She points out in the distance, and she sulks a little. Internally, but you can still feel her distaste.
“Is it gonna disturb the fish?”
“Nah, the fish’ll be fine, but that Moses guy, he wants to ruin everything.”
“Moses?” You purse your lips, and you tense, thinking of the parting of the Red Sea, thinking of your Sunday school teacher in her stiff collared dress, thinking of Father Tomas. Thinking of that imposing crucifix in the front of the church back home.
“Robert Moses. He’s the one buildin’ up all the roads across the water. It’s gonna be more and more summer people here, all the time. It’s gonna wreck the whole way we do things here. They’re not islanders like us, not with their flashy bathin’ suits and their layin’ on the beach to tan. We’ve got our own world here, and we like it that way. The people that come, they used to come because it’s private here.” Her eyes, they flick down to where she holds your hand. She doesn’t think you noticed, you don’t think, but you do, you definitely do. “I don’t think it will be, not for long.”
“I’m sorry, Brittany.” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’m sorry for being summer people too.”
“You’re not though, not really. You’re a worker, just like. Sure, you’re not from here, and ya wear clothes fancier than the rest of us, but ya fit in real nice. I wouldn’t mind if ya stayed forever.”
“Well, thank you. That feels like a big compliment.”
“The biggest.” She nods, very emphatically. “I sure like ya a lot, Santana. And I’m glad Mr. Edja brought you on over. Ya make me feel a whole lot happier, in a real sad time for me.”
“You’ve made me feel much happier too. And much more at home too. It helps with the homesickness, that’s for certain.”
“Good.” She lifts up your hand. She kisses the inside of your palm, another secret, among so many. “We oughta head back now. Gotta have Sunday dinner with my Pop. But if ya want, we’ll head down to the lighthouse later on, and have a look at all the jellies that have washed up on shore.”
“Okay, yeah.” You nod. Looking in her eyes, blue as the ocean. Falling, falling, more and more, each minute you spend around her. Falling more and more, though you know you shouldn’t. “I’d like that a lot.”
fanslide: "starlight" by taylor swift. 500 word max.
From across the room, you catch her eye. You’re working the late shift again, at the bar, and your feet, they’re tired from your heels. At first glance, you don’t realize she’s a woman, shirtsleeves and knickers rolled up, cap haphazardly positioned on her head. But then she laughs, a woman’s laugh, and you realize, those eyes were always too pretty to ever belong to anyone but. But you chase those thoughts away, because-
You’re closing up, all alone. Mr. Edja, he trusts you. He’s an old friend of your Papi’s, and with him overseas, he’d offered you a job, a paycheck to send back to your Mama and the little ones this summer, and a place to stay, because it’s too far to home on the ferry every day. You’re homesick something fierce, but you promised you’d help. When you see something in the shadows, you jump. But then you realize, it’s her, the girl from earlier. She’s watching you.
“Go on home.” You call out. This late at night thing, you hate it, and, what if there are others? She was getting awful rowdy with those boys in there.
“Ain’t safe out here for a lady all by her lonesome.”
“You’re a lady too.” You smooth your dress, and, she steps closer to you. You shiver, but, it’s certainly not cold.
“Boys won’t touch me, Pop’s the ferry cap'n. Lemme walk ya home.”
“Home’s right up there.” You point to your little apartment.
“Walk to the beach with me then. Then I’ll walk ya home after.”
Everything in you screams to say no. Everything in you screams that she’s dangerous. And not because of the boys. Not because she walks around dressing like one of them either. But, because you look at those eyes of hers and you know, you feel things you aren’t supposed to feel. Things your Mama’s priest wouldn’t like very much. She extends her hand though, and it’s soft and warm, and you think you’d follow her anywhere she wants to go.
“Brittany.” She grins, all teeth.
“Santana.” And you go, you walk away from your little upstairs bedroom. With her. Without fear.
You kick off your shoes and you step into the soft sand. She holds your hand like it’s nothing. She holds your hand and makes you feel like there’s nothing else at all. Like the whole world’s not at war, like your Papi’s not over there, like you and your Mama don’t have three little mouths to feed.
You walk, and you tell her things. You walk, and she tells you how she’s fishin’ her brother’s boat, because he died at Normandy three weeks ago. She tells you she’s her Pop’s only helper now, ‘cuz her Ma died when she was born. But she doesn’t make you feel sad when she does. Something about her eyes, under the light of the stars, with the ocean rumbling, they make you feel hope, they make you forget bad things exist. And you walk with her, in the middle of the night, to the lighthouse. And you’ve only known her name for two hours, but, somehow she knows your secret, and, you learn she has one too. You learn it when she kisses you there, hard on the mouth. And the stars in the sky, they dull, next to the ones you see in her eyes.
At last call, the place nearly cleared out, Brittany savored her drink. She savored this time of night, the iron tang of desperation and sweat. Smoke, alcohol, ozone.
Her muscles slowly cooled as people finished their drinks, their shifts, their pickups. Seductions, arguments, phone numbers.
She stopped the hand collecting her glass. She held her, gazing into her eyes. The waitress's pulse sang into the pads of her fingers.
"I'll finish it," she grinned.
The waitress turned. Then she stopped, turned back, smiled, then continued.
