I click open the email and read it twice. I’m not sure I’m believing what I’m seeing, but I can only read it so many times before I know it’s true.
Mags has sent me her résumé and a cover letter. She’s applying for a job.
She wants to leave Benito.
13
BENITO
A lot has changedover the last few weeks, and it’s all Willow’s fault. I can’t get enough of the woman. She consumes my thoughts. When she sends me a text message during the day, my palms get sweaty, my heart starts racing, and a stupid grin eats up my face like I’m fourteen freaking years old.
The fact that I’ve been with her now for six weeks, almost seven, and I still feel as excited to see her every night as I did when we first met is surprising.
Things have changed slowly. We still fuck like horny teenagers, but we talk about everything. Her childhood, mine. The restaurant. Her business. Our friends and family. I know this thing, whatever it is we’re doing, has an expiration date. She’s leaving in a year, and I know that. But fuck if I don’t want to stop time and stay here.
I’ve never felt this way about another woman before. I’m the short-time guy. Hook up and move on. That’s what I’ve always done. And this should be the same thing.
But I can feel everything changing.
The only thing that hasn’t changed is the shit with Mags. She’s still avoiding me. After she called out of work without speaking to me, I took Willow’s advice.
I asked Mags if we could talk, and we did. That went over like a week-old loaf of Italian bread. She stared at me, arms crossed, frowning while she said nothing was going on. She’s fine. Everything’s fine. She wasn’t feeling well, apparently. She didn’t apologize, didn’t explain. Just listened, nodded, and repeated that line, “There’s nothing to talk about. Everything’s fine.”
So, I’ve tried to act like everything is fine. Meanwhile, the application has been sitting on my desk staring me in the face. Although I can also feel the daggers as Mags glares into my back when we’re in the kitchen together. I still need a roof. My office is a mess and worse than it’s ever been. Because now, instead of working late or spending mornings in the office, I spend every spare moment I can with Willow.
I’ve been wanting to introduce her to my family, but I don’t know. She’s important to me. In ways I don’t think I even fully understand. But how? What would I say? Hey, Ma, Pops, this is Willow…the woman I’m hooking up with until she moves away in a couple months.
The idea depresses me so much, I try to put it out of my head. But it’s always there, like the scent of herbs in my kitchen, the pull of the heat and the drama and the pace of my business.
I am looking down at the SBA grant application that’s due today. I sigh deeply. I know Willow has told me she’s not the final decision-maker, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Something about submitting this and asking for money that comes from her company.
None of it sits right with me.
I check the time. It’s three in the afternoon. Mags is in the dining room, working on the schedule for next month. We’ve been hired to cater a rehearsal dinner at a venue off-site, so we are going to need to hire temporary staff to keep the restaurant functioning while we handle the event.
I wander out to the bar where Sassy is sitting at a table drinking a Coke that’s mostly ice while she chatters with Mags. I nod at the few customers we have, then motion to an empty chair at the table.
“Mind if I crash the party?”
Sassy shakes her head, but Mags doesn’t look up or even answer. I take a seat, and Sassy jumps up. “You want something, Benny?”
I shake my head but give my mom’s friend and one of my best servers a smile. “Thanks, Sassy. I’m good.”
She presses her lips together, then says, “My break’s over. Later, Mags.”
I frown and watch Sassy grab her glass and scurry off. I’m not one of those bosses who makes my employees punch a clock for every break. If it’s slow and Sassy needs to have a seat, she knows I’m not going to care. Based on the way she hustled off, I have to assume that she and Mags were probably talking about me.
I motion toward the papers in front of Mags. “How’s it look?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “You know.”
I rub my hands over my face. “No, actually. I don’t. Care to go into a little more detail than that?”
She huffs a sigh, and my temper starts to flare. “The bride wants a three-course dinner with dessert and a salad course,” she explains. “Appetizers during the cocktail hour, and then she does not want a buffet, but plated meals for three hundred guests. We are going to need a staff of at least six chefs. And the venue won’t give us access because there is another event that morning until like four hours before service is scheduled to start. We’re going to need staff here and at the venue to do prep, and then it’s going to be tight.”
I shake my head. I don’t even need to look at the books to know we can’t spare that kind of staffing. For a Saturday night, I’m going to need to hire and train people, but I may need a catering van to move food from here to the venue. I rub my eyes.
“What did we quote them per plate?”
