It only took a few days for Santana to snap her wristband again. This time, however, it was out of frustration rather than anxiety management.
Truth be told, she was exhausted. The entire week, she'd overdone herself at the restaurant, bustling everywhere and breathing down everyone's neck to make sure everything was perfect. The kitchen had gotten to be an overly stressful place for the entire staff, and even Marley and Sunshine, who were usually upbeat and cheerful, were starting to drag their feet. Santana knew she was dealing with this terribly. Instead of trusting her staff as she had done these last few months, she was acting as if they needed constant babying.
She was an annoyance to everyone, and the mood had turned very sour very quickly. All this for a review in a simple magazine. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Cuisine had prestige and many loyal readers; it was a bible for food enthusiasts because its rubrics covered almost all aspects of the food industry, from culinary traditions to scrumptious recipes and the new up-and-coming places to look out for. This last category was exactly the spot Santana was secretly coveting. A whole page dedicated to Adjacent and its menu—the thought was daunting, but since when did Santana not aim for the top?
There was so much more at stake than Susan Spite's opinion and review. This was the beginning of it all, the true kickstart her restaurant needed to thrive. In simpler terms, it was her make-it-or-break-it moment. Cuisine was to Adjacent what a blockbuster was to an unknown actor: a leap into the spotlight. Sure, Santana's spotlight wouldn't include a residence in Hollywood and glamorous photo shoots, but who cared about that superficial stuff anyway?
As cheesy as it was, this could be the achievement of her dreams.
Santana groaned at herself, rubbing her temples, still sitting in her car and pondering what to do. She was tired, and her overactive thoughts were clear proof of that.
It was a Saturday night, and she'd left the restaurant early, grateful to have Holly for smooth sailing in the kitchen. Normally, she didn't work on weekends, mostly because she pulled insane hours during the week, but today, she'd been too antsy to stay at home all day. She'd covered the lunch rush hour and hung her white hat quickly afterwards, dragging her body to her car.
However, she couldn't go back to her apartment—or rather, she didn't want to. At all. It was empty and just so...lonely.
The thought made her sigh. She figured she could go to a club, perhaps flirt with a woman and bring her back to her apartment, but her moves had gotten rusty, and she was sure her body would collapse before she started dancing. This week had been impossibly long.
Besides, who was she kidding? She was still recovering from Brittany's resounding no, and the thought of another woman was just plain boring.
Brittany was both exciting and fascinating; she always did or said something that kept Santana on her toes. It was refreshing, considering few people ever dared stand up to Santana's bark—especially knowing her bite was most likely just as fierce.
With that thought in mind, Santana looked at herself in the side mirror, noting she looked like crap. Well, her face did anyway. No matter what, she always had a banging body. She pulled her hair down and combed through the knots, feeling freer now that her tight ponytail wasn't pulling her damn scalp off.
Rain was starting to pour, and she could barely see the road as she drove to Brittany's house. Along the way, she wondered if maybe this was a sign; was the sky barfing cats and dogs because she was supposed to let Brittany be? She would only piss her off, she knew it...deep down, she really knew it, but something in the back of her head was nagging her to keep going. She needed Brittany's company...and maybe that was selfish, but the woman could always slam the door in her face if she really didn't want her in her home.
When she finally arrived and managed to find a parking spot, Santana stepped out of her car with a squeak, the rain dripping heavily down her cotton shirt. It was the same plain thing she usually had underneath her uniform, so it was no problem if she got soaked, but adding "sick" to her list of things that sucked wasn't exactly a number one priority. Quickly, she grabbed her trench coat in the backseat and threw it on, shivering as a gust of wind chilled her bones.
She sniffed as she locked her car and ran to the front stairs of Brittany's home, careful not to slip and fall on her ass.
After knocking, Santana wondered if Brittany was even here. There was light coming from her living room, but the chef remembered Brittany didn't have an alarm because of her logic when it came to burglars—if they thought someone was home, they wouldn't try anything. It was all so wonderfully innocent, but Santana didn't have the time to coo over Brittany's sweet quirks. The rain was falling harder, and it almost felt like she was drowning.
After another quick knock, the door swung open.
Santana looked up from a flower pot when Brittany opened the door, wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt, black leggings, and the comfiest-looking socks. She held a cup of steaming coffee in her hand, blinking surprisingly at Santana's appearance. As she moistened her pink lips with the tip of her tongue, no doubt tasting the sweet bitterness of caffeine, her blue eyes flickered down to Santana's disheveled appearance. Her coat was unbuttoned, and her dark hair was wild and tangled, some wet strands sticking to her cheeks and temple.
Fleetingly, Santana wondered if Brittany had always looked at her this way. She was a soaked and blubbering mess—surely a dreadful sight—but Brittany's lips never curved into a smirk, Brittany's eyes never judged. Without knowing it, she was already her saving grace.
As she swallowed and looked at her pleadingly, with drops of cold water running down her face and neck, Santana finally released the breath she'd been holding. "I need you," her voice cracked.