"The café should be half a block up, miss.”
“Thank you so much!” Quinn says, rummaging in her purse for the cab fare on the docket (she’ll be going to Yale on a partial financial aid package this semester- not something she thought would ever happen, but a douchebag father and a real estate agent of a mother in the not-so-booming housing market of Lima does not a fortune make), hoping she has enough for a decent tip.
It turns out she does. She hands it to him, and he thanks her and comments, “You look excited.”
“I am! I’m meeting a good friend.”
And with that, Quinn walks up to the Starbucks on 168th and Broadway.
Santana is just untying her apron when the Yalie-to-be walks in. She can’t help the grin on her face when the blonde (unfortunately still in a hat phase, but maybe she can work on that) comes towards her.
They hug, exchange pleasantries, and order their drinks.
Quinn picks a table by the window, and Santana follows.
“OK, so…” Quinn scans the café, even though there’s only one guy leeching the Wi-Fi at the other end and Clarisse, the girl that shares her last shift, “um…I have a confession to make.”
“Oh my God. Are you in love with me?”
“What? No! Could you be serious, for like, five sec-“
“I mean, you were so blushy about those spanks when we started out. I always figured you had a bit of lady lov-“
“Oh, good. I really didn’t need the drama.”
Quinn fumes, straw folded and bent around her fingers.
“Continue,” Santana allows, licking the whip and caramel drizzle from her frappe off her finger with a pop.
“I…slept with Puck.”
“Oh…kay. Do you have any juice that’s not, like, so almost 3 years ago?”
“No, I mean…again. After graduation.”
“I knooooww,” she groans, head falling to her hands.
“Don’t tell Rachel,” Quinn adds suddenly, desperately, hands in prayer position.
“Why, did you sleep with her too?”
“Santana!” Quinn hisses, “for the love of God, n-“
“I knew it. You are so gay for Berry!”
“I am not ‘gay for Berry’,” she seethes, finger quote marks included, “I am not gay for anyone. But, if I were gay (good to know the haughty Queen Bee hair toss is still intact, Santana muses) she would be a more likely candidate than you.”
“Oh, fuck that noise. I’m totally hot. You would be climbing all up on this before I could even say ‘hither’.”
“As if! And don’t you mean ‘come hither’?”
“Oh, honey. You would’ve already came.”
Quinn’s cheeks burn at the double innuendo, the blush spreading its way down her neck.
“Walked right into that one, sweetie.”
After gaining composure back, the blonde tilts her head and sweetly says, “I’m going to murder you,” through the teeth of her serial!killer grin.
“Whatever. Hey!” Santana calls out to Clarisse, “are there any goodies we can take home?”
“Erm, not many…just some pumpkin scones.”
Santana arches her eyebrows at Quinn, who scoffs, but gives a decidedly saner smile.
Pumpkin scones and coffee before school was an Unholy Trinity tradition that started autumn of their freshman year at McKinley.
“Mind bagging those up for me and my homegirl here?”
Clarisse nods, so Santana focuses back on Quinn.
“So. How was it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbles, poking and stirring her straw through the leftover ice.
“So it was bad.”
Santana levels her with a stare.
“Yes,” she admits, “it was bad. Actually, it was terrible. We both agreed on that.”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…surprising. Puck’s kind of a sexpert. Well, he’s not as good as me, of course, but he’s always been pretty good. “
“So what are you saying?” Quinn snaps.
“Uh…what I just said?”
“Are you saying that it was my fault? That I must just be so bad at sex since he’s so supposedly great at it?” she accuses shrilly.
“No-ooo, that is not what I was saying, my little (here Santana leans over to ruffle Quinn’s hair) repressed weirdo. “
“I hate you.”
“Um…” Clarisse looks down at their table, clutching the paper bag (how long has she even been standing there?), “here are your scones.”
“Thanks,” Santana says, taking the bag. “C’mon, Sweet Ass. Let’s blow this popsicle joint."
Quinn nibbles on a scone during their walk to the station, brow furrowed.
“Do you think maybe we’re just not compatible? Like, in that way?” she asks finally.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Santana says with a full mouth, “maaaybe.”
“No, it’s definitely that. ‘Third time’s the charm’ is just for losers that don’t try to make it awesome the first time.”
Quinn considers this.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
Santana bumps her shoulder against hers, and they continue walking against the setting sun.