Someday, Somehow

by Claudia Burgoa

  I sigh. “You’re impossible.”

  ✩✩✩

  “Please, Auggie,” I beg him.

  We’re in the kitchen, I lean against the counter. I’m wearing nothing but my lacy black bra. My legs are spread and his face is right between them.

  “Please what?”

  “Lick me.”

  His tongue slides from my throbbing clit to my opening but he stops. I whimper, wanting more.

  “That’s all you want, Georgie?”

  “Auggie,” I complain.

  “Tell me what you want, baby.” His voice is rough, filled with desire.

  “Fuck me with your mouth. Eat my pussy,” I order him.

  That’s all he needs from me. He presses his mouth against my delicate place and begins kissing me. I rock my hips against his face while I unclasp my bra and release my breasts. I touch myself, feeling my own breast while he’s nibbling my clit. Lapping me up and down, pressing his tongue inside me.

  “Auggie, I need you inside me,” I plea.

  “Not yet,” he says.

  “Please,” I beg, wanting him to pump his big cock inside me, filling me up, making me his—giving himself to me.

  “Sorry, George. Someday.”

  The blaring sound of my alarm wakes me up and just like every time, my heart slows down, but I reach down my panties and touch myself, thinking about Auggie. His steely length feeling me, sliding in and out while I played with my fingers. My belly clenches when I feel the first surge of sensation, like a pressure cooker about to explode. My moans escalate when I feel as I’m being propelled up to the sky.

  Someday?

  Twenty-Three

  Auggie

  I can barely keep my eyes open as the foreman shouts into my ear why these renovations are behind schedule. Apparently, the bar counter is late, and the pendant lights we wanted were discontinued.

  While we’re only halfway through the rewiring that the building needs to be up to code, I’ve learned that the HVAC system will need an overhaul as well. Thank fuck we knew about the asbestos before we purchased this place. We had time planned out to fix it. No wonder this building was so cheap. Eli told me when he came to see it, you better be willing to put a lot of time and money.

  He’s been helping me with the decision making and coming over to see that the contractor is doing everything right. I wish he lived in Colorado. We’d have someone in charge of keeping all the restaurants up to date. And George would see her father often.

  “Hey, Beltran, are you listening?” the foreman asks.

  “The pendants won’t be here until next Thursday, got it,” I say, staring at my notes.

  “Your second option, the first was discontinued. I sent you an email with the new proposal. Sign the approval and email it to my office as soon as possible.”

  I check my email and find his proposal. The first option was better, but I guess this has to do.

  “Anything else I need to know about?”

  “The interior decorator quit,” the foreman says.

  I look up in horror. Please tell me this is a cruel joke. “What? Why? I thought you said she—”

  “She said a family matter came up and she apologized but she’s moving back to Jersey,” he says.

  Great, now I have to find a new decorator. Maybe I can do it?

  Fuck, is that even possible? Do I have time?

  I’ve been working almost nonstop since George left. I need to get this restaurant ready to open by the time she gets back. I’ve been planning this for years, but especially since she started looking into culinary schools.

  I’ve always wanted to have my own restaurant, run by me and my favorite people in the world. Now that George is training to become a chef, this could really happen. My dream can come true.

  Someday all these late nights, last minute meetings, and literal fires and headaches will be worth it. But for now, how the fuck am I supposed to cover the fucking interior decoration?

  “We don’t need to find a licensed interior decorator or deal with some interior decorators union, right?” I ask.

  The foreman raises an eyebrow. Great, he must really think I’m some rich idiot. Really, I’m just a rich asshole on two hours of sleep ... so only a little bit of an idiot.

  “No, we just need someone to take lead and not go over budget,” he says.

  “Great,” I say as I pull out my phone. “How does two twenty year olds sound?”

  “Excuse me?” the foreman sputters.

  This is a terrible idea; I think as I dial Cat’s number. I never wanted to pull them into the family business. Their lives should be whatever they want and should absolutely not be absorbed into this chaos ... But I’m really desperate here and my best friend is halfway around the world. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

  “What?” Cat says after the fourth ring.

  “Can I interest you in a paid internship?” I ask hesitantly.

  “I’m listening,” she says.

  “My interior decorator is moving across the country and I’m fucked,” I start. “And I need help.”

  “Please hold,” she stops me.

  Cat keeps me in suspense for a minute. There’s some shouting, I think I can hear Ben’s voice in the distance.

  “We’ll do it for thirty dollars an hour each. We reserve the right to charge for overtime,” Ben answers the phone. “You know, for cutting into term paper writing.”

  “Yes, fine,” I agree to their demands.

  “Cool, we’ll be there in an hour,” he says.

  “Try not to die before we do!” Cat shouts from the distance.

  My shoulders relax a bit as I hang up. Okay...this could work. Just a onetime deal. They can both get some money, and something to put on their resumes, and I will be able to open this restaurant on time without stretching myself out further.

  I’m so proud of Cat and Ben for knowing how to advocate for themselves. They asked for what they were worth and that’s miles ahead of where I was at their age. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from worrying a little bit about the consequences of dragging them down with me. Hopefully this is a onetime thing. I love my family and the family business, but I know I can’t separate love from obligation.

  I don’t want my siblings to have to go down that same path.

  ✩✩✩

  The restaurant is really coming together. The walls are painted, and the ambient lighting is all set. The booths have been installed and the tables are on their way. Sitting at the bar of this, my future restaurant, I can really see how spectacular it’s going to be.

  There’s still issues though, like finishing the menu that’s been reworked twice. The head chef of this restaurant, and my own personal hire, Dwayne Jordan, is fantastic. He’s a bit of an ingenue, has been cooking competitively since he was twelve and professionally since he was fifteen.

  There was a lot of clout around him when he finished culinary school which continues to follow him. He’s a hot commodity that’s highly sought after. He’s spent the last six years or so working at some of the finest restaurants in the world and has been a guest chef at many others.

  “Okay, I give up,” Dwayne states as we comb over his last few menu ideas. “What’s the problem?”

  “Truth be told, I have no idea,” I reveal, scrubbing my face. “Something just doesn’t feel concrete.”

  Dwayne’s response is swift. “Well, we have to figure this out now, man. We need to send the final versions to your dad for approval.”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh. “But there’s something wrong with the concept of this. I don’t think it aligns with the branding of this restaurant.”

  Dwayne too sighs, taking off his glasses. Without them, his composure sort of transforms. At least, it turns the short sleeve chef’s coat he has on into more of a fashion statement that complements the tattoos on his sepia brown skin.

  He’s fun to hang out with...but he’s so good looking, I'm not sure I’d be able to sc
ore with anyone if he was my wingman. He’d probably steal them by accident and then apologize about it later.

  What can I say?

  He’s also a really good guy. Dwayne knows when to get serious and he’s pretty open about his opinions. I think he’s the first coworker I’ve had in a while that I can call a friend.

  I hope he feels the same way about me because I think I’m already driving him crazy and we’re still four months from the soft open. Regardless, it’s going to be a long couple of years if he loses interest in working here.

  “Let’s go through the concept of this restaurant one more time,” Dwayne says.

  “Alright,” I say, picking up my notes. “Desert Rose is a new American experience that fuses cool mountain sensibilities with the vibrant southwest…”

  “Okay, but what does that mean to you? Don’t give the sales pitch, tell me why that matters so much,” he says as he gestures with his hands.

  I don’t know, I think. For years, I’ve had this vision of making food from the southwest. I want to personify the desert, lush forests, and dramatic mountain peaks. I want something that reminds me of home, but still captures the imagination. Something like...

  “George,” I say in quiet realization.

  Dwayne grimaces. “I swear, if you try to set us up just because—’”

  “No!” I interrupt him. “I’m saying, George is the inspiration for this restaurant. She’s hopefully going to be a senior chef here someday. Obviously I trust your judgement, and I want it to be your restaurant too, but I need more of us in it.”

  Dwayne gives me a glance over, nodding as he bites his lip.

  “Alright, let’s talk about George then,” he says, taking my notes and pen from me. “What is she inspired by? What are her favorite ingredients?”

  I talk for a while, telling him everything. Seriously, I tell him how we met and everything we’ve done since then.

  The highs and lows of college, grad school, and getting adult jobs. I tell him about the moment I realized that she was meant to be a great chef and how much it hurt to have to let her go. I tell him about her quirks—like the way she collects bookmarks that always end up on the floor of my bedroom—and how art informs every part of her life.

  We sit here for a while, talking over beers as I weave this story of George.

  “Wow, okay,” Dwayne says. “That’s actually...yeah, I think we have some stuff to work with. I get why you’re so invested in this now.”

  “Thanks,” I say proudly. “She’s my best friend, you know? She’s...important to me.”

  “Clearly,” Dwayne says with a chuckle. “So maybe in a week, we’ll have a final version of this menu.”

  I nod. “I think we will, but like I said—it should be your restaurant too. And I want there to be room for innovation and improvising through the specials. So, whatever inspires you, go for it and we’ll adjust over time.”

  “Thanks, that’s good to hear,” he says, before taking a sip of his beer. “Listen, do you know why I took your offer when I had dozens of others waiting on me?”

  “I hope it’s because I showed a strong business acumen and a dedication to supporting your craft…” I trail off.

  Dwayne laughs. “That too. But—Auggie, you’re one of the most passionate guys I’ve ever met. Anything you can envision, you make it happen. I’ve seen a lot of guys in this industry get jaded by the bottom line.”

  I guess it’s a good thing he didn’t know me even a few years ago. Same with my dad. He used to be all about the bottom line and creating a steady increase in profit. Age and success has softened him, though. He’s more lenient with mistakes than before.

  We’re both growing constantly, but I think it’s a testament to our hard work that Dwayne sees people who care about the craft instead of the people we used to be.

  “So, I don’t know, maybe you will but you’re young. Enjoy—”

  “We’re the same age, Dwayne,” I say.

  “I know,” he says with a laugh. “You have enough time to keep your head up in case you ever start to lose sight of the important things.”

  I bob my head. “Makes sense.”

  Taking another sip of beer, I drink in the sight of this place. This restaurant is the culmination of everything I’ve worked for. I’ve put so much time and care into it that I already love the space it’s going to have in my life...and hopefully George’s as well.

  It’s okay if she needs to go work for another one of Dad’s other restaurants for a while. But I hope she doesn’t have to.

  Getting Desert Rose off the ground has been a life saver. I’m happy for the distraction...but I really miss my best friend. Thank goodness, I don’t have to do this alone.

  “Thanks for believing in me, Dwayne,” I say.

  Dwayne nudges my shoulder. “It’s no problem, just keep proving me right.”

  ✩✩✩

  George calls three weeks before she graduates from her culinary program and six weeks before Desert Rose’s soft opening. Everyone’s running around in chaos trying to train the new staff as the finishing touches on the kitchen and interior are made.

  Some specialty equipment took longer than expected to arrive, but it looks like we’re still on schedule. Everything seems to be in good shape.

  “Hey, stranger,” I say. “How’s Paris?”

  “It’s great! Oh my gosh, Auggie, it’s the most exciting thing—”

  “Auggie, do you still want the extra couch in your office?” Ben asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Sorry, George.”

  “It’s okay, was that Ben?”

  “Yeah, he’s helping me out with a project...well, him and Cat,” I admit.

  “That’s cool,” she says.

  I’d rather not consider the ethics of hiring my college-age siblings to decorate my first restaurant.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask, steering the conversation away from them and back to us.

  “I really wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Hey, there’s something wrong with the waiter uniforms,” Cat says.

  “Sorry, George, give me a second,” I say before covering my phone. “What?”

  “The logo is all wrong,” Cat says.

  “How is that possible?”

  “I think someone sent them a jpeg of the logo file instead of an image with a transparent background,” Cat says.

  I take a deep breath. “Great, should I go email them or can you send them the right file?”

  “I’ll do it for ten,” Cat says.

  “Deal,” I say. “Okay, sorry about that, George—oh, god, what is it, Dwayne?”

  Dwayne comes over, visibly frustrated. “If that funny man on the waitstaff calls me ‘Dwayne Wade’ or “Dwayne Wayne’ one more time—”

  “Okay, he’s fired, I’ll go tell him in a minute,” I promise. “You’re his boss. You already warned him. He’s out.”

  “Thank you,” he says with a sigh.

  “Okay, I’m terribly sorry, George,” I say. “It’s been crazy around here lately.”

  “No, that’s fine,” she says quietly. “I understand.”

  “So, what’s—” I say as I’m interrupted by someone screaming behind me.

  “Dammit,” I say. “I’m so sorry, George. Can I call you back later?”

  “Yes,” she says, barely audible over the shouting behind me.

  “Thanks so much, you’re amazing,” I say before hanging up.

  Twenty-Four

  George

  I’m so close to graduating from culinary school, but home has never felt further away than it does now. I miss Auggie so much it hurts. Life has gotten so busy for both of us, and every time I think about calling him, I feel awkward and nervous about what to say. So...we don’t really talk anymore.

  What could I say when I know I’m in love with my best friend? I’m in love with him, I know that now. Almost every night I dream of him. We’re in his house, as a couple cooking or just doing our thing. He say
s he loves me and it feels so real, until it’s not and I wake up.

  Now I’m about to go back home to him, yet how am I supposed to act around him? I’m hyperaware about my feelings for Auggie, so what am I supposed to do?

  I don’t think I can get over him. I’ve been floating in limbo for months on end, wondering if he’ll love me back or if I should be trying to move on.

  The worst part about all this is it makes my program that much more difficult to get through when too much of my thoughts are being taken up by Auggie.

  “Jones, step into my office, please,” Chef Bennett requests after class on one such day where my focus was half on Auggie.

  “Yes, chef,” I say as I follow her to her office.

  Her office is lined with artifacts from all over the world—snow globes from Japan, bells from Brazil, and art that she constantly reminds us is ‘Balinese’ and ‘delicate.’ Despite her stiff, yet mousey, British demeanor in the kitchen, Chef Bennett is kind of messy.

  It’s not just that her office is littered with souvenirs from her travels, but also the number of times she’s walked into class late with her hair sticking out everywhere. It’s like she constantly oversleeps. I don’t blame her, though. She stays here later than any of the other chefs.

  “Have a seat, Jones,” she says, gesturing to the plush chair on the opposite side of her desk.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  She presses her lips tightly. “You’ll be graduating soon. I wanted to know what your plans are for after graduation.”

  “I’ve arranged to work at one of Diego Beltran’s restaurants,” I announce.

  “Ah, yes, the American with the fun food chain.” Her tone is too condescending for my taste.

  He has other restaurants, I want to say, but what’s the point.

  “Pity he hasn’t done something else with his cooking.”