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"Thanks," I reply with a smirk. "Just doing my job."
She rolls her eyes playfully before glancing at her watch. "Speaking of which, we should probably open up soon."
I nod and start wiping down counters while she sets tables and turns on lights. Soon enough, we're ready for business and customers start trickling in. The click-clack of pot, pans, and kitchen work echoes off the walls and reverberates in my mind, soothing me like a lullaby in the chaotic rush.
Mornings here always go by quickly – prepping and cooking breakfast orders, chatting with a few regulars who have become familiar faces during my short time here. Then I take a short break and do some work to refresh or clean the motel rooms before returning to the diner to help prep for the lunch crowd.
The fabric of my jeans is worn and faded, the blue now more of a dusty blue. My T-shirt is a muted white color, blending into the background and not drawing attention. The plain white apron covers my hips. It's clean but shows old stains and creases from countless shifts at work.
I quickly gather my thick and wild hair into a messy bun, pulling at stubborn strands until they frame my face in an untidy but somewhat endearing style. Using an old and worn hair tie, I secure the bun in place, finding solace in its simple and familiar routine. With no makeup on to enhance my features, my plain appearance easily blends in with the rest of the kitchen staff.
Disguised as a low-level worker, I can navigate through the motel, diner, and bar without drawing any attention to myself; just another insignificant worker in the machine. As I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny stainless-steel appliances, I see a face that is clean and free of any artificial enhancements, giving off an air of simplicity and approachability. The cast iron stove radiates a warm embrace that fills the compact kitchen space, providing comfort from the chill of the air-conditioned seating area on the other side.
But my peaceful trance is shattered when I spot them – the O'Sullivan family, from back in high school. It feels like an adrenaline-infused punch right to my gut. Damn. What if they recognize me? Can they see past these culinary camouflage clothes and play connect-the-dots back to our shared history? This fear is too real. So, quick as lightning but smooth as silk, I tilt my head down to avoid eye contact - can't risk exposing myself.
Gazing out inconspicuously through the little pass-through window dividing us workers from our patrons, there sits Mr. O’Sullivan himself, his mighty stature blooming under grey-black hair styled immaculately to one side. Light seems to dance around him as he erupts into chuckles at some unheard joke. His voice wafts across intermittently through the porthole-like window sprouting its own rhythm across all others' humdrum conversations. Casual glances shift towards Mrs. O'Sullivan next; her fiery red curls still command attention effortlessly which seem alive even yards away while she speaks with her husband in a lively tone.
As they sit at the dinner table, the parents try to engage their teenagers in conversation, but both are mostly absorbed in their phone screens. The daughter's bright auburn curls cascade down her shoulders, reflecting the light from the small overhead lamp-style light fixtures above. She absentmindedly twirls a curl around her finger as she replies to her mother's question with a brief nod. Their son sits upright in his chair with his dark hair neatly styled and combed to the side. He only glances up from his phone when his father addresses him directly, giving a short answer before returning his attention to his screen. Even with their disinterest in the real world, small hints of their unique personalities show through their physical appearance and mannerisms.
But it's Siobhan O'Sullivan, the older daughter, who catches and holds my gaze. She was in my grade at school but our paths rarely crossed, as she ran with a different crowd – one that was popular, lively, and always in the spotlight. Siobhan is dressed in a trendy denim jacket over a floral dress, her long wavy hair just like her mother's.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears as she looks up from her phone, laughing at something her brother said. The fear that she might glance towards the kitchen and recognize me is suffocating. Siobhan, with her keen eyes and social nature, would definitely remember me – Natalia Romano, daughter of a notorious mafia boss.
I watch with bated breath as Siobhan absentmindedly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her gestures graceful and carefree. I can't help but feel envious of her normal life – one without constant fear and danger lurking around every corner. But my thoughts are interrupted when the entire O'Sullivan family begins to gather their belongings and make their way towards the exit.
Siobhan stands up, still engrossed in her phone, and stretches slightly before following her family out. The way they move together, completely at ease with each other, causes me to miss everyone I've been forced to leave behind.
As they make their way outside, Siobhan's gaze casually sweeps across the diner. I quickly retreat back into the kitchen, my heart racing with anxiety. The bright fluorescent lights above me hum and flicker, exposing a few grease stains on the walls. It's only when I hear the bell chime above the door that I dare to peek out again.
The O'Sullivans are climbing into a sleek silver minivan parked out front. Their movements are synchronized and effortless, a true reflection of their strong family bond. I watch them drive away, my hands clenched tightly on the greasy counter. The fear of being recognized or found is overwhelming, making my throat feel tight and constricted. I remind myself to breathe, to stay calm, but the realization that nowhere is truly safe sends shivers down my spine, like icy tendrils creeping up my back.
Their departure brings a small sense of relief, but I'm left shaken by the close encounter. The skin down my back prickles with sweat and I can't shake off the feeling of eyes still watching me from somewhere in the shadows. The diner suddenly feels claustrophobic and oppressive, as if it may swallow me whole at any moment. With trembling hands, I reach for a glass of water to calm my nerves and try to focus on anything but the lingering presence of danger.
Every moment of my life right now is consumed by the need to be cautious and vigilant. The constant fear of putting myself, and those I care about, in danger is an exhausting weight that I carry. It's the price I have to pay for a life on the run.
As my heart races and my breath comes in shallow silent gasps, I can feel it all crashing down on me. In this moment of panic, my mind involuntarily retreats to a simpler time – the halls of high school. It was a time when Antonio, with his dangerously mysterious yet protective look, would wait for me just beyond the wrought-iron gates. His presence was like a silent guardian, his sleek black car a symbol of his unspoken protection.
The memory of him floods back with such intensity that it feels as if he is standing right before me – his dark, tousled hair falling effortlessly across his forehead, his piercing gaze that held secrets untold, and the way my stomach would flutter with a potent mix of attraction and nerves whenever he was near. The light scent of his cologne would linger in the air, transporting me back to those reckless days when I thought nothing could harm me as long as he was by my side. But now, as I run from one hiding place to another, I realize how naive I had been to believe in that false sense of security.
From the moment I started to notice Antonio, our connection was like a live wire, crackling and sparking with electricity. The palpable tension between us hung heavy in the air, creating an unspoken understanding that bound us together. Antonio exuded a natural confidence and poise, his eyes commanding even when he remained silent. I couldn't help but get lost in their frosty depths.
As a painfully shy and awkward individual back then, his cool demeanor only served to magnify my insecurities. But beyond his flashy grin and charming persona, there was an unmistakable danger about him that drew me in. It was a toxic allure that linked me to him forever. His raw magnetism seemed to hum through every cell in my body, intoxicating me like the sweet aftertaste of a beloved dessert.
Even now, flashbacks of our time together invade my senses. His brand of cologne still lingers in my memory, a crisp citrus scent that imprints itself long after he leaves the room. It was a strange mix of power and vulnerability beneath his playful vibrancy, always screaming "Antonio" from miles away.
Being near him was like standing at the edge of an irresistible storm - every bone-rattling thunder echoed our nameless connection while every lightning bolt charged the space around us with unspoken excitement. It wasn't always comfortable, but there was an undeniable charm to the emotional turmoil of our forbidden relationship.
But as panic grips me now and threatens to unravel the fragile threads of my composure, I force myself back into the present moment. Taking deep breaths, I steady my racing heart and push down the rising tide of my fear. I can’t afford to be discovered here, not when my safety depends on staying hidden.
I spend the rest of my shift in a hazy blur of nervousness. As my work comes to an end, I seek refuge in the warmth of the kitchen. The clanging of pots and sizzling of pans provides a temporary escape from the chaos brewing inside me. My mind is a jumble of memories from the past and worries for the uncertain future, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Every distant sound startles me, sending my heart racing with fear that someone will uncover my true identity.
Before leaving, I go to Marlene, our kind-hearted supervisor who radiates warmth like a ray of sunshine. "Marlene," I say hesitantly, "Can I speak with you for a moment?"
She looks up from her pile of paperwork, genuine concern etched on her face. "Of course, Talia. What's on your mind?"
I struggle to find the right words to convey my inner turmoil without giving away too much. "I was wondering...if it wouldn't be too much trouble...could I just work in the kitchen for now?" My words tumble out in a desperate plea.
A crease forms between Marlene's brows as she studies me intently. She's no fool, after all. "Is everything alright, Talia?"
