Brittany sighed as she dropped her purse on the leather couch in her living room. She plopped herself next to it, not bothering to untie her shoes or take her coat off. Instead, she worried her bottom lip between her teeth and looked at the dark screen of her TV with a blank expression, wondering how she had gotten herself into such a big mess in so little time.
She hadn't meant to reject Santana so quickly, but she knew it'd been the best possible answer. It wasn't like Brittany didn't want her either—God, did she want her...Santana's little foray down memory lane had reminded her of so many small, endearing things about the woman—but it wasn't something she could actually act on. Santana was only trying to talk her way back into her bed, and Brittany...well, it had been a couple of weeks since she'd last had sex, but she wasn't so painfully turned on that she would let herself fall back into a destructive relationship. Then again, if it was only sex...
Brittany shook her head. It would never stop at "only sex" with Santana. Perhaps the first few orgasms would be mindblowingly satisfying, but then would come the small bickering about odd little things, passive-aggressive remarks, never-ending arguments, and angry blowups. They had once fought about who would wear a damn strap-on, which did not result in the angry sex Brittany had wantonly expected. Oh no, that had definitely not been one of those fights. Santana had slept on the couch that night, mumbling and groaning about the unfairness of it all.
God, we were so ridiculously dramatic, Brittany thought.
That being said, they'd also had their share of good times. It was unfair to list all the things that had gone wrong without reminding herself of their more loving times. In two years, they'd had many beautiful moments together, and Santana had made Brittany happy for quite a long time. It was often overshadowed by more frustrating memories, but if she was honest with herself, Brittany knew her relationship with Santana had been more passionate and intense than any other. She'd dated since their breakup, of course, but nothing so serious that she'd felt the need to share all her secrets, talk into the wee hours of the morning, make love for hours on end, or text silly things every now and then—all things she'd done with Santana.
Maybe her job was the reason for the lack of romance in her life, but it wasn't like she hadn't been working her ass off at Culinary Magazine during their relationship. Santana had also bounced from job to job, from waitressing to being a kitchen hand, so perhaps Brittany was trying to pull excuses out of thin air. No one had ever come close to the chef, and that was perhaps the most infuriating truth.
But what was Brittany supposed to do? Admit that their past was catching up with her and that she wouldn't mind giving it another shot? It would be the equivalent of opening herself up to heartbreak all over again. What was she thinking? People couldn't change...at least, not drastically over the span of three years. She and Santana might have matured, but together, they would still be a recipe for disaster. For now, Brittany convinced herself, she'd have to make sure Santana knew their banter was the best they would get.
Adjacent was usually quite the busy place.
It wasn't huge by any means, but the dining room was certainly not small either. Some would say it was cozy because of the warm colors and modern yet vintage decor, but Santana would describe it as sheer genius. One of her mother's friends, Emma, a quiet but very creative woman, had helped with the interior design, giving the room a whole new vibe. It was trendy and comfortable, and Santana had fallen in love with Emma's ideas and process. Maybe she'd even hugged the woman and shed a tear or two.
Today, however, the chef couldn't help but scan the dining room critically, eyes snapping from corner to corner, wall to wall, table to table, to pinpoint any and all flaws. Hidden by the span of wall that led to the kitchen, she gnawed on her bottom lip as she observed the last few customers chatting quietly, finishing their desserts, or asking for the check. It was getting late, and her staff was already starting to clean up, but she couldn't bring herself to move. She racked her brain for any possible solution to her dilemma and even considered hiring a private detective to find out what Susan Spite looked like. Surely someone knew.
She was frantic; even breathing proved to be a stressful task. She'd snapped the rubber band around her wrist more times than she could count, and every time she did it, Holly and Kurt cringed. Santana could feel her the skin on her wrist stinging and getting tender, red, and irritated, making her eyes prickle with unshed tears.
Adjacent was her baby, and the shark of food columns would soon walk in and eye every little detail critically. Nothing was safe. Santana had read many of the woman's articles; they were ruthless. Not only that, but they were smart and creative too, and readers had faith in Susan's sharp opinion and broad range of tastes.
Blaine Anderson, whom Santana had met in college, had seen his reputation completely destroyed. Today, his restaurant was still fairly successful, but amongst the business, he was very much a laughingstock. Santana remembered a time when they'd been good friends, not to mention a team during some of their cooking exams, so she always felt a pang whenever she read about the downfall of Bowtie. If Susan's review turned out to be negative, Santana had no idea what she would do with herself.
Perhaps the critic wouldn't appreciate Santana's personal touches, like the honey tang in some of her salads or the spicy taste of her guacamole. With the amount of expertise she had, Santana wondered if she was one of those old housewives who didn't appreciate young up-and-comers' twists on classic recipes. Or maybe...Santana shuddered, shaking her head. The possibilities were endless. She was usually confident about her skills and her staff's efficiency, but cockiness would not do her any favors this time.
Her hair would surely be gray by the end of the week, and what an appealing sight that would be.
"Santana..." Holly cooed, rubbing her back. She'd been trying to calm her for the better part of the last hour, but Santana had completely shut down. She was both frantic and scarily quiet, which wasn't a combination that meant good things.
"We have nothing to worry about," she tried again. "Our menu is solid, and everyone is on alert."
Santana stared at the diced onions on her wooden board, something she had done earlier to occupy her hands. Holly's words rang terribly in her ears.
"Our menu," she murmured, eyes widening.
Holly's brows came together as Santana turned around to face her, looking like a ghost had just scared her crapless.
"I have to change the menu! The chilaquiles," she sputtered. "They're all wrong! And the salads, what if I mess those up too? Oh god, what if she was here this week?"
"Calm down," Mercedes jumped in, having observed Santana's panic from her station. She had just cleaned the sticky mess and stored away her utensils, which meant she would usually be heading home by now, but she felt the need to reassure the chef.
Santana was like family, and though they were the same age, give or take a few months, Mercedes liked to coddle her like a big sister would. They had their moments of banter and their arguments, much like members of a family would, but she would always appreciate Santana for hiring her. She'd gotten her out of a rough patch, and it seemed like now, Santana was the one in need of a shoulder to lean on.
"You and I both know you're top bitch around here. We got so many compliments these past few months, I'm surprised your head is still on your shoulders."
Holly nodded along, smiling reassuringly at Santana. After a beat, she smirked. "Come on, let's see those Satan dimples."
Santana couldn't help but laugh a little as she felt the knot in her stomach loosen. She still felt like she wanted to crawl in bed and sleep for a year or two, but the smile on her face was genuine. Her staff grounded her and reminded her she had nothing to fear. She was Santana Lopez, was she not?
"Thanks, guys. I think I just freaked out for a bit."
"Freaked out?" Mercedes barked out a laugh. "Girl, that was the equivalent of gay panic for cooks. You did a complete 180."
"Huh," Holly smirked. "Who knew you'd have two of those in your life?"
"Shut up!" Santana squeaked. "I did not...cook panic! And for your information, not once did I have a gay panic. Legend has it that when I came out of my mother, I flirted with the hot midwife and got her number."
"Okay, first of all," Mercedes grimaced, "creepy, and a little inappropriate too. Second of all, it is now way past Satan and Wheezy time. I need to get my sexy self back home, and you need to sleep."
Santana huffed and crossed her arms as Holly and Mercedes smiled, happy to see their boss back to her old self.