Page 5 of Journey to Love

"Father, thank you for bringing us all here today, thank you for providing the food we are about to eat, and may you bless the hands that made it. In your name, we pray, Amen," my dad's words fill the room with solemnity and gratitude.

Mateo is quick to reach for the food, but my dad gently reminds him of the proper etiquette. "Your mom made the food, so she is the first one to fill her plate," he admonishes, his tone firm yet loving. Mateo slumps back in his chair, a pout forming on his lips as he waits for my mom to serve herself.

"Honey, it's fine, let him grab some food," my mom interjects, her voice warm and reassuring.

Without hesitation, Mateo and Kora seize the opportunity to fill their plates, eager to indulge in the meal. I wait patiently, observing the scene before me, before finally helping myself to the dishes.

With everyone settled and food on our plates, my mom breaks the silence with a question. "So, what have you all been up to? How is school going for you guys?" she inquires, her genuine interest evident in her tone.

Mateo's voice is muffled by the food in his mouth as he eagerly shares his plans for the future. "I can't wait for senior year to be over and done with, then I'm taking a break and will start college next spring," he declares between bites, his enthusiasm palpable.

Kora chimes in, her words slightly garbled as she indulges in another forkful of pancakes. "School is fine, just been studying for the finals coming up but other than that, it's fine," she reports, her focus already shifting back to her meal.

When my mom turns her attention to me, I offer a small smile. "Work is work, to be honest. It's your typical fake Mexican restaurant," I explain with a soft chuckle, knowing that Lonestar Mex may not be authentic but it gets the job done. Despite its shortcomings, the food there is decent enough.

My mom's exasperation fills the room as she expresses her frustration with our lack of detail. "You guys can do better than that," she insists, her disappointment evident in her tone. We exchange confused glances, unsure of how to respond to her plea for more substantial conversation.

"I don't know what else you want us to say, Mom. Our lives are pretty boring," I admit, carrying my empty plate to the sink. Kora and Mateo nod in agreement, echoing my sentiment.

Mom lets out a dramatic sigh, lamenting, "Is it too much to ask for a mother to want to know what her kids are up to?" Kora stands up, offering her perspective. "Mom, it's not too much to ask, but we can't give you details that are the same as last week," she reasons, gathering Mateo's plate as well.

"Yeah, Mom, it's the same old same old. School, basketball, play video games, sleep, and repeat," Mateo adds with a shrug, before wandering off.

Mom sighs once more and rolls her eyes, resigned to our lack of excitement. "I can't win with you guys, can I?" she laments.

Kora heads towards the door, signaling the end of breakfast. I approach my mom and give her a grateful smile, thanking her for the meal and giving her a kiss on the cheek. Her demeanor shifts as she announces her upcoming trip to Greece.

"Oh, by the way, I need to let you all know that I'll be gone for the month of May. I'm taking a trip to Greece to visit family, but I fully expect you all to behave once I am gone," she declares with a stern look.

Mateo scoffs, asserting our adulthood. "Mom, we're all adults, we can handle ourselves," he retorts. I silently convey my disappointment, but Mom places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, acknowledging my unspoken desire to accompany her.

"I'm sorry, Anya. I can't take you this year. Maybe next time, okay?" she offers sympathetically. Disappointed yet understanding, I muster a smile and express my excitement for her trip before heading off to work.

Pulling up to Lonestar Mex, I park discreetly behind the building as usual. George, the owner, insists we use the back entrance to avoid being seen by guests. It's a strange sight, considering the mismatch between his name and the cuisine of the restaurant. But authenticity isn't the priority here, and the customers know it.

Stepping inside, I'm immediately engulfed by a symphony of scents. The air is thick with the smoky aroma of slow-cooked meats, the rich fragrance of barbecue sauces bubbling on the stove, and the enticing smell of freshly made tortillas. Over it all, the tangy scent of peppers and Mexican spices sizzles on fajita hot plates, creating a mouthwatering atmosphere that's hard to resist.

I quickly secure my apron around my waist, exchanging nods with Manuel, our head cook, as I clock in for my shift. Preparing for the incoming rush, I grab a handful of straws and a few boxes of crayons, essentials for efficient service.

The restaurant is already bustling with activity, and I notice I've been assigned two tables simultaneously. "Just what I needed, double sat," I mutter quietly to myself. One table is filled with boisterous teenagers, while the other appears to be a more reserved group, likely just coming from church. Suppressing a sigh, I approach the church crowd first.

"Good afternoon, folks. My name's Anya. Can I start you off with some drinks?" I inquire politely. One of the men looks up at me with a brusque demeanor, "We're not ready to order yet," he retorts. Though a pang of panic hits me, I maintain a calm exterior. "Not a problem, sir. Take your time, and I'll be back shortly." As I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist firmly. My pulse quickens, but I force myself to stay composed. "Sir, please release my arm," I assert, gently pulling away. Anger flashes across his face, and he starts to rise from his seat, but a hand lands on his shoulder, prompting him to sit back down.

I automatically take a step back, trying to regain my composure. "I can handle this," I tell myself silently, mustering up some confidence. My eyes flick to the man who intervened, and I'm momentarily struck by his presence. He's tall, with broad but lean shoulders that hint at strength. His biceps flex subtly as he talks to the guest, and his black shirt and jeans fit him perfectly.

When he turns his head and looks at me, my heart skips a beat. His smile is dazzling, and his deep green eyes seem to pierce right through me. I feel a blush rising to my cheeks as I realize he's addressing me.

"I'm sorry, what?" I manage to stammer out, my voice barely above a whisper.

The man chuckles softly, his smile never fading. "Are you okay?" he repeats, his concern evident.

Trying to regain my composure, I nod quickly. "Oh, yeah, I'm totally fine," I reply, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

Internally, I'm berating myself for my lack of eloquence. What was that, Anya? I scold myself, feeling flustered and embarrassed.

Straightening my already impeccable apron, I clear my throat. "Yes, I'm good, thank you," I manage to say, hoping my voice sounds steadier this time.

He gives me another warm smile and taps the back of my shoulder. "That's great to hear. If this man bothers you, or anyone really, let me know. I'll be at the bar," he says before walking away.

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