The Matchmaker

chapter four

SANTANA

The coffee shop Santana has chosen for their date is almost exactly halfway between her place and Rachel's dorm building on the NYADA campus; she's proud of herself (and her awesome Internet research skills) for finding such a nearly perfect meeting place. It had taken her no small amount of time, but still less than she'd expected, so she'd had plenty of time to shower and pick out the perfect first date outfit. Adrenaline is running fast and furious through her body, and she keeps picking up her phone and looking at the clock on the lock screen as though that might somehow make time go faster. She rolls her eyes at herself, exasperated by what she considers to be schoolgirl-like behavior, even as she acknowledges that it's okay for her to be happy. It's been so long since the last time she felt like this that it's almost an alien sensation.

"You need to welcome the butterflies, San," Brittany might say. "Otherwise they'll get all sad and lie around in your stomach and give you indigestion."

She'd never been able to argue with the girl's logic, as seemingly incomprehensible as it sometimes was. Brittany had possessed an extraordinary emotional IQ, an uncanny ability to see beneath the surface with everyone they'd ever known, particularly with Santana. No doubt the cat-eyed dancer would look at her right now and tell her to let the butterflies flutter freely, over Santana's hopeless denials that she was feeling anything at all, let alone a bunch of silly flying insects in her stomach. Calm, cool and collected, that was the Lopez persona – unless, of course, someone or something pissed her off. Then her angry alter ego, the volatile Snixx, would emerge to lay waste to the offending party with vicious, vicious words, and maybe even a hard slap right across the face for good measure.

But she wasn't angry with herself, not really; just anxious and excited and hopeful. Again, that last one felt almost brand new to her, after all the heartache she'd endured with Brittany leaving and Dani's exhausting, chaotic ways. Maybe Kurt was more right than he knew when he'd implied that she was ready to settle down – one of the things she liked most about Rachel was how stable she seemed to be, so focused and determined and goal-oriented. Brittany had pretty much stumbled into her dance career, and Dani was always careening about from place to place, job to job; it had seemed to Santana that neither of them had ever truly had any idea as to what their purpose in life was, and they were just waiting around for someone to tell them. Of course, when someone finally did that for Brittany, it resulted in a sudden, shocking, painful and disorienting breakup that had left Santana so heartbroken that she'd tried desperately to fill the void with one meaningless hook-up after another, and then got together with Dani even though she instinctively knew that girl, with the blue and purple streaks in her hair and slightly unbalanced smile, was nothing but trouble. (She just hadn't known how much trouble she would ultimately prove to be, nor how much damage she would inflict.)

The sound of her phone ringing jolts Santana from the unpleasant memory, and the sour mood it's put her in leads her to worry that it's Rachel calling to cancel their date. The mood quickly evaporates, however, turning to surprise when she sees the name and number on the screen.

She doesn't even try to hide the surprise in her voice when she answers. "Shelby? Shelby Corcoran? I haven't heard from you in, like, forever. How are you?"

"Hello, Santana. I know it's been a long time since we last spoke. I'm sorry about that. Are you still in the same office?" The older woman's voice is as melodious as Santana remembers it, which makes sense, of course, what with Shelby Corcoran's former life as New York City's favorite cabaret chanteuse and onetime Broadway star and all.

"No, we moved a year and a half ago. I am, however, still in the same apartment - by myself these days, sadly, but that's another story. One I don't really feel like getting into, before you ask," Santana replies, pulling a face as though the memory of Brittany's abandonment is a carton of spoiled milk she's just made the mistake of opening.

"You and Brittany split up? Really? Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. She was a sweet girl, if a little loopy."

"Not loopy enough to reject an offer to tour with Beyonce as one of her backup dancers."

"You're kidding! Beyonce, huh? Wow." Hearing the surprise and admiration in Shelby's voice, Santana can't even begrudge the fact that she's impressed. Even as terribly hurt as she was by Brittany's abrupt departure from her life, she still can't help but be proud of the girl's success.

"Wow is right. She lives in Hollywood now, when she's not on tour or choreographing the latest, hottest shows and tours for Mike Chang."

"Ah, yes - superstar choreographer Mike Chang," Shelby says. "Did I ever tell you I knew that boy when he was just Dancer #2 in the chorus line? I knew even back then that he was something special. If he's taken Brittany under his wing, he must think she's pretty special too."

"Under his wing, yeah. And in his fucking house, too." Santana's tone is unmistakable; she wants to change the subject now, and Shelby's smart enough to take the hint.

"Well, you're probably wondering why I'm calling, right?"

"The question has crossed my mind several times now, yes."

Shelby chuckles lightly. "Ever the patient one. Okay, are you sitting down?" At Santana's mm-hmm, she continues. "You remember I hired you a few years ago because I was tired of dating egocentric, self-involved show business people, right?"

"How could I forget? Actors, directors, producers, set designers even...you tried 'em all and found them wanting. And then I matched you up with that high school teacher guy, if I recall correctly."

"Yes, you did. That's right."

"What was his name again? Sandy...Sandy something. Wait, wait...Sandy Ryerson, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Now serving time for selling illegally obtained medical marijuana at an obscene mark-up."

Santana gasps, then laughs out loud. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't – it's not funny. Even I get 'em wrong sometimes, I guess. Wait – I remember you only went out with him a few times, but you never told me why things ended so quickly."

"Actually, it's hilarious." Shelby laughs, loud and heartily, from deep in her throat. "And why do you think I never told you why I stopped seeing him? Ugh, the embarrassment. But don't worry – I'm not calling to demand a refund or anything."

"Well, that's good," Santana replies, smiling, all her tension forgotten. She pours herself a tall glass of iced tea, choosing to put off her craving for caffeine until her date with Rachel. "Cause you're not getting it back, anyway. I spent it when we had to decorate the new office."

"It turns out that it was the best money I ever spent, after all. After Sandy got into trouble, I dumped him, of course – he was a terrible boyfriend, anyway. I knew something was up when our first date was at Sheets n' Things. He spent practically the entire time talking about the importance of thread count." There's a chuckle, but it sounds nervous, and then a pause, and Santana gets the impression that Shelby's considering her next words carefully. It doesn't take long for her to find out why. "After that...well, you know the deal. One guy after another, each relationship shorter than the last. I actually got pretty depressed for a while there. I became convinced that I was never going to find someone, that I was doomed to die alone."

Yeah, no wonder Shelby hadn't been great at keeping in touch. Santana grimaced; she could relate, unfortunately. Been there, bought the T-shirt and the hat.

"And then I met Emma."

Santana coughs, sputters, "Excuse me? Did I hear you correctly? I could have sworn you said, and then I met Emma."

Shelby laughs again, and it reminds Santana, oddly, of Rachel's laugh. The impression is fleeting, disappearing just as quickly as it came.

"Yes, you heard me correctly. Okay, here's what happened: there was a support group for despondent singles that met in the high school where Sandy used to teach. The meetings were held on – what was it, Tuesday or Wednesday nights? Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. Anyway, I start attending, because my days of fame are far enough behind me that I can do these things without worrying about paparazzi following me and taking pictures to pair with the sad headline on Page Six – Former Broadway star hits social rock bottom, attends lonely hearts group session in dumpy local high school!" They both laugh, and Santana feels a sense of relief at knowing her friend has gotten to a place where she can joke not only about her dating life, but her singing career being over too. Goodness knows neither of them had been sure that would ever come to pass in the sad and angry days following the ill-fated surgery that had taken Shelby's once-golden voice away forever.

"Just so you know, I totally would've bought that newspaper," Santana jibes. Good-natured mockery has always been their thing, having become friends after the mutual decision had been made to end their business relationship.

"Not only would you have bought that newspaper, you would have framed that page and then hung it up in your office."

"Damned right I would have. And then, if I'd been reached for comment, I would have told the press, Hey, it wasn't my fault. She's just undateable!"

"Oh, you're such a bitch," Shelby gasps in between gales of laughter.

"I never claimed otherwise. So, are you going to get to the point of this story or what? I've got a hot date this afternoon, and I really don't want to be late."

"Oh, really? Good for you. You'll have to tell me all about it when Emma and I take you out for dinner tomorrow night. How does seven o'clock sound?"

"Sounds awesome." Maybe Rachel will be free and want to join us? Santana wonders absently. "But I still want to hear about you and this Emma person, so spill already."

"All right, all right – so. I walk into this meeting, and there's this petite redhead sitting there, wearing the most ridiculous blouse, bright yellow with a gigantic bow on it, and she's got these super wide eyes, like she's perpetually surprised or frightened, and they're darting all around the room as though she's thinking something or someone's going to jump out and attack everyone. And I just thought, she's just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. I thought she looked like a baby bird or something."

"I've gotta say, I did not have you pegged as someone with a thing for bows."

"Shush – I'm telling a story here!"

"Sorry, mom. Please, continue."

"Anyway, I sat next to her, right before this tall, curly-haired guy with an absurd amount of product in his hair could take that seat, and before the meeting even started, it was like, let's get out of here. Something just clicked, and we both felt it. So we left and went to the diner down the street, and we ate and talked and laughed for hours. I'd never met anyone like her before – so sweet and nice, so...innocent, almost."

A jolt of realization passes through Santana's body at Shelby's words, at the sound of the obviously smitten woman's voice. It sounds a lot like her own, whenever she talks about the pint-sized theater student with the outsized voice and personality to match.

"It's funny," she says, her own voice taking on a tinge of wonder. "I felt the same thing when Rachel and I met, that click thing you mentioned. Like, suddenly, I just had to get to know her. Instant fascination."

"Yes!" Shelby exclaims. "Exactly. It was what I'd always hoped to feel when I met the right person, one day...I just never thought it would be another woman." Shelby pauses, and Santana can hear her collecting her thoughts, struggling to find the words to explain what she means. "I mean, I had...experiences in college, if you know what I mean – and I know you do - but I guess, with my upbringing, it never occurred to me to think that the reason I was never happy with a guy was because I was meant to be with a woman. Or at least with one particular woman, anyway."

"It never occurred to me to suggest it to you, honestly. It wasn't my place to do that, anyway, even if it had. But, honest truth time here - I was always thinking, what is up with her? Is she like, super-picky, does she have unrealistic demands or expectations, or what is it? Why can't a beautiful, smart, talented and successful woman like her find a guy and settle down? I never once thought it might be because you didn't know you were playing for the wrong team."

"Better late than never, right?" Shelby laughs. Then her voice takes on a much more serious tone. "I'm glad you never made that suggestion, to tell you the truth. It probably would have terrified me, and I would have run away screaming. I just wasn't ready for it then. Anyway, Emma will be home soon, and I should let you go so you can get yourself ready for that hot date. We're on for tomorrow night, right? Oh, and bring Rachel if she's free. I'd love to meet her."

Santana smiles, having already thought of having Rachel join them. "Oh, we are so on for tomorrow night. And yeah, I'll ask Rachel if she'd like to come along. That would be fun."

"All right, then. Does Italian work for you? Emma loves Italian. She would eat pasta every day if I'd let her. I'll text you the name and address of the place later."

"That absolutely works for me, as long as the place has breadsticks. You know I gots ta have my breadsticks, woman!"

"Okay, great. Text me later and let me know how the date went. I want all the juicy details!"

"I will, right after I give them to Kurt first. He'd fucking kill me if he wasn't the first to know. I'm sure you remember how he can be sometimes."

"Oh, yes. He's more of a drama queen than I am!" the ex-Broadway star chuckles. "Still, he's a great friend and he really cares about you, so I won't complain about being the second to know. Well, not too much, anyway."

"Thanks. And Shelby? I'm really, really glad you're happy. You deserve it."

"Hey, you do too. And it sounds to me like maybe – just maybe – you might have found some happiness of your own."

RACHEL

The texts and e-mails have been constant, a never-ending electronic stream of apologies that Rachel might find flattering if she weren't still so angry. In the abstract, it's possible that she might one day forgive Jesse, but she can't imagine a scenario in which that would actually happen. Bad things, even when done with the best of intentions, are still bad things, and in the end, the negative effects outweigh whatever good he'd thought he was trying to do.

Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. She'd admire his persistence if it weren't so damned annoying. The thought makes her uncomfortable, realizing that some of the people in her high school glee club had said much the same about her, once upon a time. Still, that was different. She was all about the team, not about herself, regardless of what anyone else thought. But Jesse? He's not doing this for her, she thinks. No, he's merely trying to absolve himself of his well-earned guilt not because he truly feels bad, but because it proves that he's not as brilliant as he thought he was. Rachel has no doubt that he had never thought her capable of holding him accountable for what he'd done.

But she had held him accountable, and she vows that she will continue to do so, right up until the day they graduate, if necessary. No one makes a fool of Rachel Berry and gets away with it, she fumes, dragging the hairbrush through her long brown locks for at least the thousandth time.

She sighs, puts the brush down and closes her eyes; then, deeply inhaling, she counts backwards from ten in an effort to regain control of her emotions. She refuses to let this negative energy taint the very lovely coffee date she's got planned with Santana. Images of smooth, tan skin and dark hair flutter through her mind, and she takes a deep breath, finding the calm that's been eluding her for most of the morning. Mercedes and Tina had their own things going on: homework to do, errands to run, social rituals to observe (the two never, ever missed breakfast at the Spotlight Diner together on Saturdays and Sundays, waiting until after Mercedes' church attendance on the latter), so they'd been flitting around the cramped on-campus apartment space like drunken moths until finally departing for their sacred weekend morning meal, which had not helped Rachel to locate her much-needed focus.

(Rachel was actually grateful for the quiet - the irony of which was not lost upon her, knowing that she was rarely quiet herself.)

Now she savored the stillness, the silence, draped it like a cloak around her shoulders, reveled in it. Now she could finally think, center, channel her energy into the most important task of this most important day: presenting her best self to Santana.

Santana Lopez was not entirely a woman of mystery. In fact, she was something of a local celebrity, known as one of the city's best practitioners of the now-making-sort-of-a-comeback art of matchmaking. (Rachel may have done a little bit of Googling earlier in the week, trying to learn more about the woman with whom she was soon to share coffee – and maybe more? - later this day.) Santana was reluctant to discuss her business with Rachel, which the younger woman could understand; after all, they'd only just met, and a few bantering and perhaps slightly flirtatious texts and phone conversations did not a true relationship make. Still, no one could blame her for wanting to know something of the person beneath the arrestingly beautiful surface, not really. She was Rachel Berry, and once she became curious about something, she simply had to know all she could about it. That was just her nature. It always had been.

Santana's company, "Hearts of the City," had a snappy, state of the art web site, complete with slick animations and video testimonials from some of the firm's most satisfied clients. When she'd looked it up, Rachel had been impressed, to say the least, and she was particularly pleased by the way it catered to a diverse clientele, pairing up straight and same-sex couples of varying ethnicities and ages with equal success. Love is love, as they say, and it appeared that Santana Lopez and her staff were all about finding love for just about anyone who asked. She also noted, with some surprise, that the website indicated that the company had a sliding fee scale, assisting the less well-off as often as they did the moneyed class that ruled the city.

Armed with this knowledge, Rachel felt even better about the possibility of embarking on a real romance with the older woman. The thought of her age, however, made her frown slightly, remembering her roommates' mock-scandalized reactions when she'd told them all about how she'd met Santana. She knew it was simply because they cared about her, and because they really liked teasing her besides, but she felt their concerns, while admirable, were a tad overblown. Santana wasn't really that much older, being something of a matchmaking prodigy, although yes, Rachel had to concede it was true that she had at least a couple of years on her – maybe, what, four or five? Age was just a number, Rachel insisted. It simply didn't matter if the attraction was there - and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was, thank you very much.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Rachel considers what she sees there. She's never been good at hiding things from anybody, least of all herself. Her dads, teachers and friends had all said she was honest to a fault. They were right, of course. However, she's always tried to be nice when it comes to expressing her honest opinions – except when she herself is the subject of her own internal conversations. Large, chocolate-brown eyes carefully scrutinize the girl in the reflective glass, taking stock, looking for flaws, searching for all the things that might need improvement. It's that kind of brutal self-examination that makes the stars of stage and screen who they are, she believes. One can never be completely satisfied with oneself, because that means there's nothing left for which to hunger, no overarching goal towards which to strive.

She runs down her mental checklist, drawing the appropriate symbol in each little box: her chestnut hair looks good, finally at just the right length to compliment the shape of her face; her body, in a clingy black top and tight blue jeans, is in the best condition it's ever been, thanks (ironically) to the grueling workout regimen her tyrannical Dance 101 teacher had created for her back in her first year at NYADA; and her skin, as always, is radiant.

She looks up into the top right hand corner of the mirror, that sacred space that's always been reserved for the small, square picture of herself and Finn: her laughing in his long arms, him smiling that strange but endearing half-smile, just the one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. It had been taken not long before – her throat tightens at the memory – before then. Before he'd left her. Before he'd left everyone.

She tells herself for approximately the billionth time that she can't, shouldn't be mad at him, that it wasn't his fault, after all, but she's helpless as always against the sudden surge of anger and sadness that threatens to undermine the peace and calm she's worked so hard to achieve. Without turning her eyes to the cat calendar on the wall, she knows the anniversary date is approaching soon, that an e-mail from his mother Carole will be arriving in her inbox soon to remind her, as though she could possibly ever forget. Then she silently chastises herself for the tiny spark of anger she feels towards Mrs. Hudson, knowing that the older woman has suffered far more than she has, more than anyone ever should. They'd been more than neighbors, more than a parent and a child's friend; they'd been friends themselves, still were friends – but now that friendship had a permanent cloud hovering above it, and they both knew it. How could it be otherwise, given what she and Finn had been to each other? They'd shared their entire childhood and adolescence together, all the most important moments in their lives, mattered more to each other than anyone...and then he was just gone, vanished in an instant, as though he'd been nothing more than a pleasant, years-long dream.

Finn was the first person other than her dads who'd ever listened – really, truly listened to her – who actually valued what she had to say. He'd been her biggest cheerleader, her greatest source of strength and support, even when they'd had to keep their friendship a secret for a whole year after he became the quarterback of the McKinley High football team, and by default the most popular boy in school. He'd always had the good grace to feel badly about that, but Rachel understood it. He needed that social standing to survive, to get the football scholarship that would save Carole from drowning in debt to pay for his college education, and she couldn't possibly hold it against him, no matter how lonely she'd often felt as a result. Fortunately, Quinn and especially Marley had come along, and that had really been a godsend. But even they hadn't quite entirely filled the Finn-sized hole in her life that had existed until he'd defied the social hierarchy and changed things in that school forever by declaring that he could be both the quarterback and the male lead in the Glee Club.

Which, with her help and guidance (not to mention a lot of intense dance practice), he did – brilliantly.

So it's no wonder that in the time that's passed since – since then – she's looked at that picture and asked him to return that guidance whenever an important moment in her life comes up. It had been just as much him as it had been Quinn and Marley and (ugh) Jesse that had convinced her she had what it takes to audition for, and maybe even win, her dream role in Funny Girl. It had been Finn, smiling down on her from wherever his kind soul had taken up residence among the stars, who had assured her that Madison would be open to romance with her. And now she finds herself asking him if what she feels building between herself and Santana is truly as potentially life-altering as she's beginning to believe it is.

She feels the answer as a pleasant, light quickening in her blood, singing in her veins: Yes.

"Thank you, Finn," she whispers. Then she leans forward to kiss the air between her and the snapshot, and with two flicks of her wrist, she grabs her purse and keys off the bed and leaves for coffee with Santana, an old song that she and the quarterback had both loved echoing in her mind. Moments later, as she emerges from the dormitory building to merge with the busy Saturday afternoon sidewalk traffic, she finds herself humming the words, which now feel something like a benediction.

And I feel that when I'm with you – it's all right. I know it's right.

SANTANA

She knows she shouldn't be smirking right now, sitting at the little out-of-the way booth in the cozy coffee shop she'd picked out for their date, but ever since Rachel had told her so earnestly about how much she believes being early is the new being on time, she'd planned to make sure that she was here first. Something about Rachel's pronouncement had activated the intensely competitive side of her personality, which had kind of been lying dormant since her days on the cheerleading squad back in high school, so when she saw the opportunity to best Rachel at something - even something as silly as this - she'd become absolutely determined to do so.

Yet when she sees the diminutive singer stride through the door to the place as though she owns it, the smirk of triumph becomes a smile of pride, tinged with a bit of wonder. There's something about the confidence in her bearing, the upward tilt of her head, the light trailing after her as the door slowly swings shut behind, that makes Santana regard Rachel with a kind of amazement. How is it that someone so small can have a presence so large, a personality of such size that it fills each and every room she enters?

When she finally gets to the booth, all Santana can do is rise from her seat and say, "I'm so glad you're here." Her eyes follow Rachel as the smaller girl settles into the seat on the opposite side. She looks down for a moment as she places her purse beside her, then looks directly into Santana's eyes.

And then Rachel says, "The feeling is most definitely mutual," and her smile is so bright it's like she's swallowed the sun.

There have been precious few moments in Santana's life where she can honestly say her breath has been taken away, stolen right from her lungs – in fact, she could count them on one hand – but this seemingly very ordinary moment, right here, right now, is certainly one of them. She can't stop looking at Rachel, looking, looking, looking, as though she's afraid that the girl across from her is just a mirage, a pleasant hallucination she's having.

"What?" Rachel frowns with concern. "Is something wrong? Do I...do I look okay?"

"No," Santana says, her voice low, pitched so only Rachel can hear. "You look...beautiful. Really, really beautiful."

The look of faint uncertainty that had briefly crumpled Rachel's features instantly falls away, gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a look of such complete, unadulterated happiness that Santana finds herself just a little choked up. Her heart swells with affection for the girl as she begins chattering about how lovely this little place is, with the various pictures of the neighborhood as it's looked through the last several decades hung up on the walls, and all the people of varying ages, ethnicities and backgrounds gathered there, savoring their deliciously brewed beverages. Santana's watching more than listening, taking in every change in Rachel's delightfully animated face, observing the way she uses her tiny hands to illustrate her points with the gusto of a conductor directing a symphony orchestra. She hasn't been so completely and utterly charmed by anyone like this since Brittany.

But where Brittany's charm had come from her quirky, almost child-like way of looking at life, her free-spirited way of moving through the world to the beat of a drum only she could ever hear, Rachel's is entirely more sensual. The way she speaks, the music that colors her voice even when she's not singing, is absolutely entrancing to Santana, as is the passion with which she details her likes and dislikes about everything from Broadway to artificial sweetener. If the world was a Disney cartoon with Brittany, it's a movie musical with Rachel - twice as big as life, with a hummable soundtrack that never stops.

Suddenly, Rachel stops talking, fixes Santana with a look that's not unlike that of a mother noticing the first signs of fever in a child. "Santana, are you all right? You've hardly said a word, nor have you stopped staring at me since I sat down. Maybe that's my fault – you're probably tired, and I've failed to get us the coffee we came here to enjoy in the first place. Here, allow me to rectify that mistake right now."

She rises from the table with a look of such seriousness that Santana has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud. "No, no," she says, gesturing with her hands for Rachel to resume her seat. "Sit your tiny, adorable ass down. I'm the one who asked you on this date. No way are you paying for it. I'll just be gone a minute, and then you and I are getting our caffeine on. ¿Tú entiendes?"

Rachel blinks, sits back down slowly. "I love it when you speak Spanish to me," she says, her voice quiet and breathy, her eyes darker than their normal chocolate shade. Santana could swear she sees a bit of a flush rising beneath Rachel's olive-hued cheeks, makes a mental note to file that away under turn-ons.

"Oh? Realmente quiero besarte ahora mismo," Santana replies. Her tone is light, but she's never felt anything more strongly in her life. Internally, she's cursing the fact that they're in this stupid little coffee shop, surrounded by hipsters and students and old folks, and not somewhere way more private – like, say, her place. Still, she manages a genuinely sweet smile and saunters off to the counter, knowing from past conversations exactly what to order for Rachel.

As she stands in line behind a pair of extremely fashionable, chatty young men (obviously NYADA students – they remind her of Kurt and his on-again, off-again boyfriend Blaine) and a tall, grumpy woman who keeps looking at her watch and muttering to herself, Santana still can't keep her eyes off Rachel, enjoying the clingy top and tight jeans she's wearing. It's a modest outfit, really. It doesn't expose a lot of skin, but it does show off the lines and curves of her well-toned body just the same. The girl herself is oblivious to Santana's stare. She's looking out the window, or down at the table, tapping her fingers and humming to herself (a show tune, no doubt), looking for all the world like she's waiting to audition for the part of Cutest Girl on Planet Earth.

(As far as Santana's concerned, she's got the part.)

The two chatty boys finally shut up long enough to place their orders, much to Santana's relief. They remain quiet while they wait, and their drinks come fairly quickly. They thank the girl behind the counter politely, then scurry off to wherever musically inclined fashionista boys go on sunny Saturday afternoons. The grumpy woman with the watch fixation takes what seems like forever to decide what she wants; Santana strongly considers administering a swift application of her knee-high boot to the woman's posterior before she finally spits out her order. When the woman looks at her watch again, the girl behind the counter rolls her eyes and smiles at Santana as if to say, What are you gonna do? Santana merely shrugs in response. She's a little proud of herself for not giving in to her normal impulse to present Ms. Hurry-the-Fuck-Up-Already with a good old fashioned tongue lashing as a parting gift, knowing that Rachel would probably not be at all impressed by the scene that would make.

Finally, she gets to the counter and orders Rachel's drink expertly, pleased with herself for remembering every last detail of the complex list of ingredients, then orders her own (much simpler) drink. The counter girl gives her a shy smile and compliments her name, clearly flirting, but instead of feeling flattered, as she normally would, Santana finds herself feeling strangely insulted; like, Don't you see that I'm with someone, and an obviously amazing someone at that? She catches herself then, realizing the implications, and gives the girl a small smile – large enough not to be rude, but small enough to let the girl know that she's not at all interested.

That doesn't keep the girl from writing her name (Tori, same as on her name tag) and phone number on the receipt, along with Call me! (two little hearts replacing the dots beneath the exclamation points) before handing it and the two drinks to Santana mere minutes later. That's what she gets for trying to be subtle.

Ugh, Santana thinks. Does that really work on anyone? Ever?

Rachel chooses that exact moment to look her way, and the smile she sends her way is so ridiculously happy that Santana forgets all about her annoyance with the coffee girl, and the grumpy-ass slow poke, and the chatty boys who had all gone before her. All she knows or cares about now is the girl who's waiting for her coffee, so she decides she'd best get to stepping before someone else notices there's no one sitting in the booth across from her.

She sets the drinks down on the table before sliding back into her seat. "Here you go. One soy vanilla latte for you, with non-dairy whipped cream and non-dairy chocolate shavings, as requested, and one triple Americano for me."

Rachel rewards her with another beaming smile, and Santana makes a mental note to Google the healing properties of smiles when she gets home, because damn if she doesn't feel good when this girl smiles at her. If she could bottle it, Santana's pretty sure that smile could cure all kinds of shit.

"Thank you, Santana," Rachel says, blowing on the hot beverage before taking a small, tentative sip. "Mmm. Delicious! Well, I think I've found a new coffee place to frequent between classes. Mercedes and Tina will love it too, no doubt."

Santana can't help but smile right back. "I'm sure they would, but...I'd like to think of this as our place, you know what I mean? Like a little secret just for the two of us."

Rachel's eyes flick up, oblivious to the fact that she has non-dairy whipped cream on her nose. "Our place? That's...I don't think I've ever had a place with someone before. How romantic!" she exclaims. "You know, this is the best date I've ever been on."

Santana struggles to contain her laughter at the contrast between the seriousness of Rachel's tone and the fact that she still hasn't noticed the whipped topping on her nose. Then the implication hits her: "You mean, best first date, right?"

Rachel frowns slightly, then grabs her napkin with a little eek and wipes furiously at her nose. Santana's stare has given it away. "Yes – embarrassing drink topping moment aside," she says, tossing the napkin aside and then smiling as if nothing had happened. "No, wait, no." She shakes her head. "I meant, best date. I haven't had very many first dates...or many dates at all, really, being so committed to my career and all, but...this has honestly been the best date I've ever had, of any kind."

"Wow. I...I don't know what to say." Santana is flustered, yet again. How does Rachel do this to her, so easily? How does she make her feel like her heart's going to burst out of her chest and fly away, like a butterfly taken by a gale? "Other than, get ready for a lot more dates – that is, if you want to...if you're, you know, up for it or whatever."

Santana has learned by now that Rachel can surprise her at the most unexpected times, in the most unexpected ways – but Rachel's next words are nothing like anything she could possibly have expected, even accounting for that tendency. "I knew this was going to be a special day," Rachel says quietly. "Finn told me it would be. I've learned never to doubt what he says."

"Finn?" she asks, slightly alarmed by the somber expression on Rachel's face, the far-away look in her eyes. "Who...who's Finn?"

"He was one of my best friends, growing up. For a time, he was my only friend, really. And then he...he died." A single tear tracks its way down Rachel's beautiful face, and Santana feels her heart cracking in two, cleaved right down the middle. "He died, but he never truly left me. Whenever I'm facing a really big decision, or have to make a very important choice, I know he's with me. I can feel his presence, and he always gives me the right advice."

"Wow. That's, um...wow. I'm really sorry, Rachel." Talk of death has always made Santana uncomfortable, despite – or maybe because of – her Catholic upbringing. It's one of those great big existential questions that she's never really gotten her mind around, and she's been lucky that her life hasn't been touched by it very often, except when her abuelo died back when she was six years old. Her abuela had lived with her and her parents ever since. "It sounds like he was really special to you."

"I know I must seem crazy to you right now. I sound crazy to myself sometimes." Rachel reaches for another napkin, dries away her tears, laughing softly at herself. She knows she's risking a lot by talking about this so soon, but it feels right. If Santana's going to know her completely, she has to know about Finn and what he meant to her. And she wants Santana to know her completely, wants that as much as she's ever wanted anything. "But...if Finn were here, he'd like you, I know that. He'd say something like, You know, that Santana, she's honest and fearless and she's got a great big heart. He...he was strangely observant in that way."

Santana's warm, dark hand covers Rachel's slightly colder, lighter one. "Rachel, I - I don't want to pry or anything, but...what brought this on?"

"He...the anniversary of his death is coming soon. It's not an easy time for me, as you might imagine. Nor for his mother and stepfather, with whom I'm very close. And it...it feels strange for me to be so happy when such a sad day is so close at hand. Finn would never want me to be sad, even though I always am at this time of year. He was very fond of that quote, I'm sure you've heard it: Don't cry because it's over - "

"Smile because it happened," Santana finishes for her, reaching out to caress Rachel's cheek with her free hand. "Smile because you knew each other, because you cared for each other."

"Exactly," Rachel says, letting out a sigh. "Thank you, Santana. For understanding. For listening. And for caring."

"Always, mi estrellita. Always." Then both of Rachel's small hands are in hers on the table between them, and Santana feels like she never wants to let them go.

"Mi estrellita?" Rachel asks, her head quizzically tilted to one side. Her pronunciation isn't great, but they'll work on it. "More Spanish. I like it. What does it mean?"

"It means 'my little star.'" It also means that I really, really like you.

"My little star? I like it." Rachel feels Finn approvingly tapping her shoulder, and she nods in acknowledgment. "Stars are kind of my thing."

They sit that way in silence for a while, drinking their coffees and thinking silent thoughts, until a memory hits Santana. "Hey. A friend of mine is in town, and she's invited me to dinner tomorrow night. I...I told her about you, and she said she'd really like to meet you. So would you, like, be free to go?"

"Would this be our second date?" Her eyes sparkle in the afternoon sunlight like perfectly round jewels, like small worlds orbiting around Santana's heart.

Now it's Santana's turn to smile, and she does, so wide that her face feels as though it might just split in two. "If you'd like it to be, then yes. Yes, it would."

"Then I would love to go, Santana."

The talk then turns to smaller things, simpler things, things that make them both smile and laugh and forget the trials and tribulations they've both suffered in their pasts. There's only here and now, only Rachel's future on Broadway, only the million stories of romantic trial and error that Santana's compiled over the course of her matchmaking career, and as they talk the afternoon away in the little coffee shop that they will both consider their place from now on, neither of them notice the young man standing outside the window, watching them.

Jesse hadn't known this place was here - or, more accurately, he hadn't ever really noticed it before. It's very nondescript for a place in this part of the city, not at all the kind of place he'd ever hang out, and certainly not the kind of place he'd ever expected to see Rachel, much less Rachel with a very attractive – but clearly older – woman. He knows it's rude to be standing here, watching them talk and laugh and smile their way through one coffee and then another, knows he should pick up his feet and walk away before she sees him, but he can't make himself look away. This, he realizes, is what he hadn't wanted to face. This is what he'd known all along but had never truly accepted until this very moment: the special light in Rachel's eyes when she looks at the woman across from her, the way she throws her head back and roars so freely with laughter at something the woman says, the manner in which she leans conspiratorially towards her and steals a quick, soft kiss with the promise of something more in it – these are all things he can never, will never have with her, and there's no amount of wishing that will ever change that fact.

Surreptitiously, he takes a few pictures of Rachel and the dark-eyed, dark-skinned beauty with his phone, glad that the two are far too engrossed in each other to notice anything that might be going on outside. Then he remembers where he was actually supposed to be going, and with a shake of his head, pockets the phone. Turning up the collar of his black leather jacket – a gift from Rachel, once upon a time - against the breeze, he hurries down the sidewalk as the sun begins its sidewards slant behind the tall New York City buildings.

Thanks, as always, to all of you out there who have followed and/or favorited this story. I hope you enjoy this update as much as I enjoyed writing it. I own nothing. Feel free to review and / or send me a PM to let me know what you liked, what you loved and what you'd like to see happen in upcoming chapters.