Someday, Somehow

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Yeah,” Auggie says with a grin. “It reminds me of you.”

  See, it’s when he says things like that that confuse me. When he makes my breath catch because he says I’m fantastic or he loves the way I do something. The worst part is I know he’s so painfully earnest about everything he says to me.

  “Hey,” he says quietly.

  I take my eyes off the sunset, finding his gaze trying to meet mine. His eyes are so soft and tender. He smiles at me with such unbridled excitement. He looks at me like he’s just so in awe of something.

  When he reaches out to brush some hair from my face, I imagine what any other guy would do. He would tilt my chin up, kiss me passionately, and then ask me to spend forever with him.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” Auggie whispers.

  I nod. “Of course.”

  For a second, I think he could say, ‘I love you.’

  Instead, he smiles harder right before he says, “Come on, let’s go back to our hotel and change before we go to dinner. I don’t think smelling like fish is part of their dress code.”

  He starts to walk ahead. I stare at his back for a moment as he pulls me gently toward our car rental.

  This, in one of the most beautiful places on earth with the perfect man, is where I realize I don’t want to wait for the rest of my life for Agustin Diego Beltran.

  Falling out of love is my new quest. How long will it take though?

  Twenty-Nine

  George

  Even though, Tiff and I have grown up and she now lives with her husband, we still find time to hang out outside of work. Including, but not limited to, me having existential crises on the big leather couch Diego bought her and Dwayne as a wedding-Christmas-housewarming gift. It’s nice escaping to her house because there’s no way for Auggie to walk in unannounced, but also this couch understands my penchant for drama and comfort.

  “What am I doing wrong, Tiff?” I lament on a hot summer afternoon.

  “Trying to get drunk on hard seltzer, for one thing, George,” Tiff says on the other side of the couch.

  “But what am I going to do?” I say.

  “Well, maybe try something stronger,” she says.

  I groan. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I can guess you’re bummed out about Auggie again, but you haven’t actually said it this time,” Tiff says. “You see how this pattern gets old after a while.”

  “Yeah, yeah ‘doing something over and over again while expecting different results is insanity’ and all that jazz,’” I say.

  “That too,” she says. “But, you know, there’s a way to solve this.”

  I frown. “Witness protection program?”

  “No, silly,” she says. “Talk. To. Him.”

  “No,” I say before taking a sip of my hard seltzer.

  Tiff nudges me. “Come on, George! How else will you know how he feels if you don’t talk to him?”

  “I know how he feels, and he doesn’t love me,” I say firmly. “He doesn’t love anyone. He’s just...numb.”

  I don’t need to be able to see Tiff to know she’s giving me that skeptical lawyer-stare of hers. Maybe it’s just a mom-stare she got from hers.

  “And you know this because he...told you?” Tiff asks.

  “Kind of,” I say.

  “That doesn’t sound at all like Auggie or like you had a real conversation,” she states.

  “Listen, I know him better than anyone. The way I did it was the best. I’m not going to declare my love to just get humiliated while my heart gets ripped out and shattered into a billion pieces.”

  Tiff sighs. She scoots closer and runs a hand sympathetically up and down my leg.

  “That doesn’t sound like Auggie, but,” she pauses and swallows thickly. “If the answer was no, he’d be gentle with your heart.”

  “No matter how he says, I don’t love you, he’s going to shatter my heart,” I explain, determined not to let her talk me into some stupid plan that I know in my heart won’t work.

  “You’re right; this is a problem. You’re not happy and being around Auggie doesn’t make you happy.”

  I put down my can of hard seltzer, burying my face in my hands. “But I want it to.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both,” I admit. “I want to be happy, and being around Auggie is just…sad, dreadful. I want it to be easy again. Like it used to be before I went to Paris.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” Tiff says. “Get over him.”

  “I’ve tried and I keep trying. It’s impossible.”

  “No, listen,” Tiff says as she coaxes me to sit up. “You go somewhere far away, just for a little bit. You see cool things. You get some nice rebound guys. You come back and boom, you’re over Auggie. You get to have your platonic friend back and then you can really start dating again. No more shitty Tinder dates that you only go on to convince yourself that you can move on. Just realistic, fun dating. Like you deserve.”

  I sigh deeply. I don’t know if her idea is the solution to my problem...but Chef Bennett and I still correspond and I’m getting desperate.

  Maybe Tiff’s idea is my only way out, but where do I go?

  ✩✩✩

  A few weeks later, Auggie walks in on me trying to write an email to Chef Bennett. I guess it’s not really walking in when I’m working on my laptop in our kitchen. But I still wince when he walks in, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

  “What are you up to?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  I hate feeling like I have to lie to him to do anything. But I can’t tell him about this. At least not yet. I don’t know what he’ll say, and I don’t want to have to explain myself. What if he stops me?

  Maybe this is it, the chance to let him know that he could lose me or he can show me that he cares more than a friend.

  “Oh,” he says over my shoulder. “How’s Chef Bennett?”

  Still hates your guts, I don’t say. “She’s fine.”

  Auggie hums. Stupidly, I realize too late that he’s reading my email.

  “You’re thinking about working somewhere else?” he asks with a somber voice.

  “Yeah, well...it’s not forever,” I say. “Just...want to broaden my horizons. Remember what’s out there so I can bring something valuable here.”

  I’m not lying per se. I’m just not disclosing that I’m talking more about my personal life than my culinary skills. I would just look into opportunities in the US if I thought that was enough distance from Auggie. A restaurant in Pluto might be too close, but I’ll take Europe since space traveling isn’t cost effective.

  “Oh,” he says.

  He’s eerily quiet for a moment. His movements seem almost stiff as he putters to the fridge.

  Is he upset?

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “Huh?” he says, still facing the fridge. “About what?”

  “About me working somewhere else for a while,” I repeat the question.

  I swear it looks like his grip on the fridge handle gets tighter. His knuckles turn white.

  “I think it’s great,” he responds without turning back to look at me.

  Seriously?

  “That’s it?”

  “And you’ll be amazing anywhere you go,” he adds.

  When he turns around with the carton of milk, his face is completely blank.

  Is he kidding me?

  I’ve been agonizing for weeks about whether or not this is the right decision. Yet the fact remains, that I’ve been pissed off, sad, and disappointed for years—almost ever since I got back from France. I’ve tried so hard to get a grip and accept that he’ll never love me back and...what the fuck?

  Does he not care that I’m leaving again?

  Will he even miss me?

  Probably not, just like when I left for Paris.

  I press send.

  It’s time for me to start a new life. Gathering my things, I decide to leav
e. I can’t be around him right now. I slam the door behind me.

  Fuck you, Agustin Beltran!

  For some reason, I expect him to run after me and beg me to stay. It’s just like those dreams I had when I was in Paris. They’re just wishes that never solidify.

  What will happen to us when I come back? I don’t want to lose my friend, but I have to save my heart.

  ✩✩✩

  Two months later, I storm into Auggie’s office at Desert Rose. We just closed the restaurant for the night and I’m up to my ears with anxiety. We’ve been skating around each other for the past eight weeks. We haven’t been the same and I don’t know how to fix us–or if I care to fix our friendship at this point.

  Even when I try to avoid a serious conversation, I need to tell him.

  “I’m requesting a sabbatical,” I say, setting a formal letter on top of his desk.

  Auggie does a double take, grabbing the paper. “What?”

  “I’m requesting a sabbatical,” I repeat firmly.

  I have to be strong. I need this for me. If I don’t leave now, I could spend the rest of my life chasing after a man who will never give me the time of day. I deserve better than that.

  Younger Auggie taught me that.

  Auggie takes a deep breath, eyes fixating on the paper. “Alright, starting when and for how long?”

  “Ideally, I leave in two weeks, but I understand if you need to fill my position first. I’ll be gone for about a year,” I explain. “I have arrangements to be a guest chef in Italy.”

  He doesn’t move a muscle and says absolutely nothing for a moment. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. Part of me thinks, ‘come on, Auggie, say something. Be upset. Do anything!’ But the rational part of me knows he’ll never tell me no to my face.

  Auggie swallows thickly before he stands up and walks around the desk. He offers me a handshake the way he would a business partner or a stranger.

  “That sounds acceptable. You can consider yourself relieved from your duties. I’m sure you have a lot to do before your trip,” Auggie says. “Congratulations, Chef Jones. We’ll see you when you get back.”

  I stare at his hand. There’s not even a hug this time. I sigh and shake his hand, while my heart shatters. If I had any doubts, here’s my answer. He’s setting me free.

  He’ll never love me.

  It’s time to start over.

  Thirty

  Auggie

  I swear this office gets smaller every time I'm here. Typically, I try to get most of my admin work done before we open and then I make my rounds on the restaurant. But things have been absurdly busy lately.

  Despite the rest of the building being well lit, this room lacks a large window and the floor-to-ceiling tile walls seem darker and more ominous as the winter rolls on.

  It certainly does me no good while I’m trying to balance the books.

  “Okay, so after yesterday’s revenue we should be at—” I mumble as I click enter.

  Except the numbers look jumbled at best, like weird cryptic smudges at worst.

  “This isn’t right,” I mumble.

  Shit, but every time I try to adjust my angle, it does nothing. Maybe I need glasses.

  I sigh, scrubbing my face with both hands. I’m supposed to be catching up on work, but this is turning into an exercise in futility. I try to make better sense of my spreadsheet when I reopen my eyes.

  “Fuck,” I groan. “It all looks the same.”

  I look up at the clock mounted on the wall. It’s only midnight. It’s not technically late...but I do have to be across town tomorrow at eight a.m. for a meeting with Dad and the executive chefs of our other restaurants.

  Although, what does it matter if I meet with the other executive chefs tomorrow since I’ve been to all of their restaurants recently? Dad insists I hire a manager for this restaurant. To learn how to delegate everywhere. It makes me wonder if he thinks I’m not enough to run the company.

  It seems like every time I turn around lately, there’s some issue that needs fixing. If it isn’t at Desert Rose, then it’s someone else’s restaurant. Abuela’s restaurant needed a last minute look over before their health inspection earlier this week. Thankfully, Eli Jones has been helping me with some of the issues.

  Every night, by the time it’s time to go home, I’m utterly exhausted and already behind on getting even the most minimal sleep. But then there’s always another email to read or a memo to write.

  Most nights lately, I sleep in my office. If by any luck I make it home, I fall asleep on the couch with my phone on top of my face.

  Which is hard on my back because I’m not in college anymore. I’m thirty-two and I should be more functional than this, but everything is too much.

  I rub my temple, already feeling a migraine coming on, as someone knocks on my office door.

  “Hey, man,” Dwayne says. “Ready to head out?”

  “Almost, still going through the books,” I say, plastering a smile on my face. “I’ll be done soon, though. You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “You sure? I can drop you off on our way home,” Dwayne says.

  “Dude, I have my own car.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he insists.

  “No, don’t trouble yourself,” I dismiss him.

  I think that’s the end of it at first but Dwayne is talking to someone outside of the office. I try to ignore him as I go back to work. It’s going alright until my chair is suddenly ripped away from my desk and being pushed toward the office door. I’m too tired for this bullshit.

  I look behind me, ready to complain to Dwayne that I’m fine but the person taking me away from my office is Tiff.

  “Dammit,” I say.

  “Told you,” Tiff says to Dwayne.

  “Guys, seriously, this isn’t necessary,” I insist.

  “Listen, as much as I love telling you ‘no,’” Tiff says. “You actually look like death and we honestly can’t have you in tomorrow’s obituary section if you crash into a pole on your way home.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” I say. “Dwayne, come on, please?”

  “Sorry, Auggie, but I gotta agree with Tiff on this one,” he says. “When was the last time you even had a good night’s sleep?”

  Three months ago or so, before George told me she was leaving—again.

  “Last night?” I lie.

  Dwayne crosses his arms. “Hate to do this to you, Auggie—”

  “Well, I don’t,” Tiff says firmly. “You’re staying in our guest room tonight.”

  Could they just please leave me alone? “But—”

  “No buts,” Tiff says. “I have full immunity to do shit for your own good. Including sending you to bed, workaholic.”

  I sigh, resigned as they usher me out of my chair and toward their car. This is considerate of them, but honestly annoying. I’m fine.

  It’s just been a weird month.

  ✩✩✩

  Being a relief cook can be extremely rewarding, especially if I get the opportunity outside of Desert Rose. It feels less like I’m going to ruin everything and more like a privilege. Dad’s steak house is a good change of pace from my regular routine.

  I’m getting a break from being stuck in my office and prepare the new pork chop recipe they’ve been working on here. The secret is this very delicate balsamic reduction.

  “Where’s the wheatgerm oil?” Genevieve, one of the comis chefs, asks.

  I stop slicing pork to grab the wheatgerm oil from the spice rack for her.

  “It’s usually hiding behind the grapeseed oil,” I say as I hand it to her.

  Genevieve blushes and smiles suggestively before she says, “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I say somberly.

  Genevieve’s a nice person. She’s cute and competent. I think in another life, I would ask her out to dinner sometime. But I don’t really date anymore. I can’t when there’s no endgame for me.

  I quietly return to slicing p
ork. I enjoy filling in here occasionally. It’s a good restaurant with a great staff. Everyone’s friendly and helps each other.

  But sometimes people come from not so great restaurants and/or highly competitive workplaces. So it takes them a while to adjust. Take Genevieve, who’s still surprised when people take the time to answer her questions. She’s still pretty new, what else would we do?

  I will say the welcoming and supportive nature of this restaurant is a testament to how much Dad’s grown as a leader and manager. Especially compared to what he was like in high school, his management style has loosened up a lot.

  It’s been a good influence on everyone in his life that Dad’s opened up the way he has, for me included. I used to be extremely uptight.

  Even when I first met George, I was still trying to reconcile what I knew about being different and isolated with what I was learning about finding people who could care and support me.

  George’s influence has definitely made me a better person. George, the woman who left and hasn’t picked up my calls or answer any of my texts since. It’s like she decided to forget about us. I wonder if she’s planning on coming back.

  My chest tightens and I order myself to relax and stop thinking about stupid shit. Of course, she’s coming back to us. She wouldn’t leave her family behind.

  Would she?

  “Auggie, there you are,” Dad says as he enters the kitchen.

  “Well, you said you needed extra help, so here I am,” I say casually.

  Dad pats me on the back. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you to come in on your day off.”

  I shrug. “What else would I be doing?”

  The alternative was to be bored out of my mind at home. That’s the last place I want to be right now.

  Dad sighs. He asks one of the comis chefs to take my place.

  “Why don’t you take a break, go on a walk with me?”

  Did I do something wrong?

  “Okay.”

  Dad ushers me toward the private dining room we keep relatively quiet and empty for our VIP guests. Dad has me sit at the bar while he goes behind the counter, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.