ONELIA
˚⋅˖* ⊱❀⊰ *˖⋅˚
"All done."
I exclaim, cleaning off the sweat from my face, flaring my hands into the air. The time is now six, and my hour is coming to a close on my sixth order.
"Finished?"
Simon inquires about joining my side as we both look at the plated burger and fries.
"You make cooking a burger look harder than it already is."
He says dismissively.
"It's because I want my customer to have the best."
He only stares at me and then at the burger before Gray walks in.
"How was it? Onelia?"
He asks.
"It was exceptional as always."
I smile, untying the apron and handing it back to him.
"Well, I should probably get going to the register now."
I leave, going back to the register where a person clad in full black stands waiting. Their face obstructed by the hood of their hoodie; however, one thing was for certain. He is tall. His shoulders are almost twice the size of mine.
He's...scary.
Cracking the most believable smile I can, I opened my mouth to ask for their order, but they beat me to it.
"Ten,"
they say firmly, their voice a recognizably deep husk, but with the slightest tilt of their head, I catch a glimpse of their eyes—specks of bright blue I didn't have to second-guess or look again to make sure.
It's blue. A breathtaking shade of blue
"Oh...ok."
I snap out of the trance his eyes had on me and regain focus on my work. Putting out my hand, I take the piece of crumpled-up parchment, which doesn't feel like money, and I affirm with a glance.
What the hell?
"Excuse me..."
I hold my words, seeing him leaving as if nothing had happened, leaving me with the piece of paper still in my hand.
I guess something weird did happen today.
Standing there, silently, the next customer walks up, confusion etched into her brow as she switches her glance from the door to me, signaling she saw everything that played out just a second ago.
"Do you always get weirdos like that?"
she retorts, her tone dripping with disgust, while all I can do is look down at the paper.
Words so anonymous they send literal ice through my veins, causing me to stand still in place: "It's surprising how quickly one can go from drowning in debt to owning multiple stores in a new state. So the only question is, how did you get it?"
What does that mean? I know how we got here. I watched my father build his reputation from the ground up, so what nonsense is this letter talking about? Unless... they gave it to the wrong person?
"Hello?"
The girl's annoying voice cuts through my thoughts, and I snap my head up, a bit distorted by the events suddenly happening out of nowhere.
"Oh!"
I say, snapping back into character, a forced smile forming on my face.
"What would you like today, ma'am?"
"Order five, please, and seven,"
she says, a bit of annoyance clinging to the edges of her tone.
"Right."
I sigh, unconsciously placing the letter in my pocket and resuming work as before.
The hours passed at their usual pace, with no repeat of that strange encounter.
The routine remained unchanged-handling transactions, taking short breaks, and enjoying lighthearted chatter with Kendra, whose company always brightened the day. Before long, night fell, and closing time arrived without a hitch, marking a surprisingly smooth end to the day.
Other than that rude letter, which I now chalked up to a prank by adults with nothing better to do.
"Honestly, I could have done with at least a bit more help."
Kendra says with a playful sigh. But the force with which she slams her locker makes me think otherwise.
"Your father is so unbearable,"
she huffs but pauses, turning to me.
"Not you, though."
Closing my locker, I slip the sleeves of my puff jacket over my shoulders and reply with a soft chuckle.
"He's trying his best. Even If his meetings are lies, I still trust him. Everything will go back to as it was in a bit."
I add, mumbling the rest under my breath as I realize how late it's getting and that he's still not back.
"Yeah, I know he is."
Kendra admits with a nod.
"Then again-"
The sound of the door ringing open catches both of us off guard, and our heads snap toward the entrance that leads to the diner.
"Maybe it's your father?"
Kendra mutters, a relatively good guess since we did put up the "Closed" sign. No one should be coming in at this time anyway.
"Yeah."
I answer dismissively, moving to the door with Kendra following behind.
The air is knocked from my lungs as I take in the sight of my father, breathless on the floor. His back is pressed against the glass door that welcomes customers, one hand gripping the waistband of his black sweater, the other clutching a pistol, the same one I'd only seen him carry once before.
"Dad!"
I cry out, immediately jumping into action and dashing toward him. Kendra freezes by the door to the locker rooms, staring in shock.
I vault over the counter, sliding swiftly across it before dashing toward him. His auburn hair, damp with sweat, clings to his face. A fresh wound runs along his chin. One foot is bare, his pants are torn, and his skin is covered in raw, open wounds.
His hurried, labored breaths fill my ears.
"What happened?"
I ask instinctively. When he doesn't respond, I turn to Kendra.
"Call an ambulance!"
Kendra's astonished expression shifts immediately to focus. She digs into her bag for her phone and dials 911 while I work to keep my father conscious, scanning him for more injuries until I notice an open gunshot wound under the hand tightly clutching his waist.
"What injuries does he have?"
Kendra asked, her voice sharp and urgent. It must be the dispatcher questioning me.
Steadying the shaky breaths rushing in and out of my lungs, I answer, trying to stay calm.
"A gunshot wound on his left side, just above the waistline,"
I say, my voice trembling despite my efforts.
"Great,"
Kendra mumbled just loud enough for me to hear.
"Keep pressure on it and keep him awake."
She relays.
Pressing down on his side, he groans, but at least I know he's alive and responsive. Spotting the gun, I use my foot to kick it toward Kendra and instruct her to get rid of it before the ambulance arrives.
"On it!" she says, rushing forward, scooping up the weapon, and disappearing into the kitchen.
The rest becomes a blur; the flashing lights of the ambulance and the steady drone of police questions meld into one indistinct memory. I can't recall much, but one thing lingers: the word
"Valentine,"
Muttered by one cop to another.
Hearing it makes my heart sink.
Now, as I sit by my father's bedside, the hum of the machines fills the room. His face, now bandaged, looks so much smaller and more fragile.
"What have you done now, Father?"
I whisper, running my hands through my hair.
"I can list them for you..."
The voice, smooth and cunning, cuts through the silence as the door bursts open. Men in black suits waltz in unannounced, forming two lines facing each other. Their thunderous steps precede the arrival of someone commanding.
Short black hair sleeked back with a few rebellious strands, a sharp suit that fits like a second skin, and a black fur coat draped over their shoulders. A half-smoked blunt dangles between sweet, rosy lips, and their eyes, eyes that hold the chaos and depth of the ocean-stride in with them.
"Lia," the voice concludes, smooth and commanding.