He’d plot out little scenarios in his head, sometimes, of what those first few days after the escape must have been like: Brittany trying to explain to a stoic Santana about the “Finn suit,” Santana allowing herself a small empathetic smile at what she believed was a story Brittany had made up in a twisted effort to make sense out of the senselessness of it all. He knew everybody had probably blamed their disappearance on Quinn. Maybe they even thought she’d gotten herself knocked up again, and rather than face the repeated shame, had scurried off in the night, dragging poor, hapless Finn along with her. Only Kurt had really known the truth, but she doubted he’d stand up for her. Why would he, when she’d never been bothered to show him the same kindness?
She was ashamed to admit that she could never remember that moment of penetration with any sort of clarity. That fatal first thrust that had been the beginning of the end of everything she’d ever dreamed for herself. There’d just been not there, and then suddenly there, and then it was all over except for the unyielding ache that settled in the following morning and the tiny, familiar stranger that had been pulled from the rubble nine months later.