Fic: It's A Nice Day For A White Wedding 8/12
The incessant sound of the alarm shattered the little sleep Santana had caught. Fitful dreams broke her lapses of slumber, and she’d find herself staring up at the ceiling for hours, which in reality was only seconds. 2.51. 8 hours to go. 2.53. Still 8. 2.56. 2.59. 3.05. 3.07. 3.20…She jerks awake, cold sweat sticking her to the sheets. 3.41. 3.43. Almost 7. She finds her eye lids drooping time after time, but minutes later she’s awake again, checking the time. Santana doesn’t know which is worse to be awake and think about it or to be asleep and see it.
But now the alarm has just punctured the little peace she achieved. She’s wide awake, and stares up at the ceiling for a while, getting her head in gear. For now everything is methodical. She gets up, goes to the bathroom and empties her bladder, she turns the shower on, letting it run, she gathers the towels, she takes off her nightwear and strips herself naked, she slides the shower door open, gets in, closes the door, adjusts the heat, wets her hair, squeezes shampoo into her left palm, she massages it through her hair and rinses, she does it again, the shampoo gets in her eye and she blinks rapidly, she squeezes her conditioner onto her left palm and smoothes it over her hair, leaving it in while she lathers up her shower gel with her exfoliator sponge and cleans her body, she rinses the soap off before going back to her hair, making sure that it is rinsed through thoroughly, she turns off the shower, she gets out, she wraps one towel around herself and one around her hair, she leaves the bathroom and goes to the wardrobe where she hung her outfit up yesterday, ridding it of the creases from its journey in the suitcase, she lays it on the bed along with her underwear, she goes back into the bathroom and dries her self, giving her hair a quick ruffle with her towel, she puts on her moisturiser and deodorant, she brushes her teeth, she didn’t and won’t want breakfast, she leaves the bathroom, she puts on her underwear and plugs in her hairdryer, she turns it on, she dries her hair, she turns it off, she brushes her hair, she puts her dress on, she puts on her mascara and eye liner, she puts on her lipstick, she puts her ear rings in, her necklace on and her cocktail ring, she gets her straightners from her suitcase, she unplugs the hairdryer and puts the straightners in the socket, she turns them on, she takes a sip of water as she waits for the beep to say they’re ready, they beep and she goes back to them, she straightens her hair, she turns them off, she puts on her shoes, she gets her bag together, she surveys herself in the mirror, not looking herself in the eye for too long, she can lie to everyone else, but not to herself, she’s done, she’s ready.
Timed to perfection, as always, Santana doesn’t need to wait around long before heading to her car, but the time she does have spare she spends by pacing the length of her room. Santana locks up her lodge, her hands are shaking and she drops the keys before she’s able to fit them in the slot and swirl them so that the lock clicks into place.
Everything outside is surprisingly still, contrasting with the turmoil which rages behind Santana’s cool façade; no breeze, no clouds in the sky to float pass, no birdsong, everything is still, immutable, calm. Santana walks up to her car, Finn’s in the car park along with Tina and Matt who, as it appears, he is giving a lift. Mercedes and Kurt have decided likewise and they’re both buckling up in Kurt’s car. Quinn is in the passenger side of her husband’s black number, Santana can see Quinn staring at her through the heavily tinted windows.
‘Santana you need a lift?’ Finn calls out.
‘No thanks.’ Santana motions towards her car as she heads over to it.
‘Wow, you upgraded the truck then!’
‘Something like that.’ Santana mutters out with a small smile.
She unlocks her car and gets in; firing up the engine, silence surrounding her as she turns the radio off which blared out automatically. They all set off in a convoy, Finn leading, followed but Kurt, followed by Quinn, followed by Santana. Santana thinks about never setting off, letting the fleet go the journey without her but she instinctively pushes down on the gas and she’s trawling right behind the others. She can’t see the rear window mirror of Quinn’s ride through the glass, but she’s certain Quinn is surveying her the whole time in it. The journey is painstakingly slow but at the same time no where near long enough. Finn’s car pulls up and everyone follows suit behind him. Everyone gets out almost immediately, apart from Santana who flips down her sun shield and opens up the mirror, she stares into her eyes, mentally preparing herself for the next few hours, she stares into her dark orbs, deeper and deeper, right into her pupils, the blackness is surrounding her, she’s falling.
Tap, tap. Santana flips the shield back up and turns to her window, a man in a suit is standing, bent forwards looking at her through the window. Santana doesn’t know him, so she assumes he’s part of the staff.
Santana gets out, locks her car and turns to the man.
‘Are you here for the wedding?’
It is blatantly obvious she’s here for the wedding, she would have hardly been on a joy ride dressed to the nines and decided to pull up here to have a nose at the goings on.
‘Indeed, I am.’ Santana smiles out.
‘Lovely! Are you a family member?’
‘No.’
‘Ok then, if you’d like to head straight through the gate to the left of the house and sit anywhere, except from the first three rows?’
‘Of course, thank you.’
Santana walks up to the house. It’s big, pretentious, Camden’s family must be proud of their wealth, it’s the typical upper class, striving bourgeoisie household, the epitome of the ‘keeping up with the Jones’’ mentality. Santana imagines Camden never wanted for anything, all was on a platter for him, no doubt they’ve forked out for all this, probably planned it all out for the golden boy, and they’ve probably given him a tidy sum to set up home as well, a traditional family home where he can start turning out mini - Santana doesn’t even know his last name, who will uphold the family honour and all that.
The gate to the left of the house, is white, freshly painted, it shines out as the dull autumn sun bathes it, its ornate flowery swirls scream extravagance and class and tradition; it’s a million miles from Lima. A million miles from what Santana used to be, from what Brittany used to be. If Santana never steps through those gates she doesn’t have to lose anything, she hovers in front of the opening, just placing a toe over this invisible threshold will be like crossing into another life, another world, a world where Santana and Brittany don’t exist together, and even though they haven’t existed together for a while Santana still thinks they do. Some bond held them together in the slightest, but passing through the gateway would break it, would sever the bond, will cleave Santana in half.