Chapter 2

The rush is over and things begin to slow. Before I can sneak out the door and avoid her chastising me about the legalities of employer-employee relations, she fills a to-go cup with horchata and snaps a lid on it.

“The young woman bussing tables tonight looks awfully parched.” She thrusts the cup in my direction. “Will you make sure she gets this?”

I grin and chew my lip to avoid letting out the snort of a laugh that’s welling up inside me. It doesn’t work very well.

“I’m Gabriela,” she says.

“Nice to meet you, Angela.” She clutches my hand in hers. Her grip is firm, but not crushing, and her fingers feel just as I had always imagined they would—skin a little rough, but a touch that is tender and inviting. She is smiling.

We have come to an arrangement, Gabriela and I. Each afternoon after school, I come in and order two chicken tacos with cilantro and onions, and water to drink. And each time I do, I get a horchata instead of water. There’s never any charge.

When I finish eating, I stick around and help her through the evening rush, bussing tables, refilling drinks. I’m getting pretty good at it, and several of the regulars know me by name. Except, they call my Angel instead of Angela, and always smile when they thank me. I have to admit, I kind of like it.

Tonight, when I walk in, it’s much busier than a usual Friday afternoon. It’s like everyone decided to eat early, and bring a friend. Nearly every table is full and there is a line three deep at the counter. I glance over at Gabriela as she slings another trio of tacos onto a plate. Her hair is pulled back as usual, but it’s starting to come loose in a few places. There’s a light sheen of perspiration on the back of her neck.

I pause to take in the scene. If she didn’t look so harried, I’d almost say she looks sexy—like she’s overwhelmed in a moment of passion. I shiver just a bit as the thought quickly plays out in my mind—Gabriela, her hair askew, back arched, with the tender skin of her neck exposed as I lightly touch my fingers to her.

But instead of sharing my fantasy, I grab an apron and tie it around my waist. “Which table?” I say.

“Number seven.” She thrusts the steaming plate in my direction and turns her attention to the customer at the counter, waiting to order.

Our night continues much the same way until about seven-thirty, when the pace finally begins to slacken.

“What happened?” I ask. “Are you running a special or something?”

“No,” she says. Gabriela moves to the sink to wash her hands and then dabs at her brow with a moistened paper towel. “I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe it’s a full moon.”

I look at her sideways for a second, until she breaks out into a wide grin.

“I don’t know what it is. But I’ve learned not to complain when business is good.” She’s moved back to the grill and has put down some tortillas to warm. “The usual?” she asks.

I look into her eyes—they are bright and happy eyes and I can almost see the dollar signs from tonight’s rush coalescing in those eyes if I gaze long enough. And the color in her cheeks, I decide it’s definitely from the heat of the kitchen. Business is good and she’s happy. It makes me happy. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her and press my lips to hers, to see if I can taste that happiness. I wonder if it tastes like cilantro and onions.

The sizzle of chicken reaches my ears and I inhale a familiar, savory mix of spices.

“You don’t have to—” I start.

“Angel,” she says, and squeezes my hand.

She called me Angel. She’s holding my hand.

“I couldn’t have done it without you tonight.” She lets my hand go as quickly as she took it. “Besides, I’m making something for myself, too. Grab a couple drinks and find a table. It’ll just be another minute.”

For the first time since I started working here I sit down at a table for two knowing I won’t be eating alone. Gabriela is moving briskly in my direction with two steaming plates. This time I am feeling bold enough to watch the sway of her hips without averting my eyes.

She called me Angel. She held my hand.

I slide one of the tall glasses of horchata over to her as she deposits our plates on this cozy little table for two. We eat in silence for a time. It is a comfortable silence, like old friends who know each other well enough that idle chit-chat is no longer necessary.

I watch her movements—the way she pinches her taco to keep it from falling apart, the way her cheeks pull inward as she sucks at the straw in her drink. I even envision myself dabbing my napkin to catch the bit of hot sauce that has found its way to the corner of her mouth.

I want to reach over the table and take her hand in mine. Anything to touch her. But I do none of these things. I simply enjoy our quiet company.

“I’m serious when I say I couldn’t have done this without you. I mean that.” Now she’s reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. She gives me a squeeze. “You really are an angel.”

In that one moment, my confidence surges.

I lean over the table, placing my hand gently behind her neck, and I kiss her.

I am expecting fireworks.

I get a confused look instead.

“Angela, I’m sorry. I—”

I don’t get a chance to hear the rest. I’m too busy bolting for the door.

I spend the next several days successfully avoiding Gabriela and her restaurant, as I wallow in my self-pity. But it’s not long before I feel the pull again. I don’t know if it’s that I’m becoming mature enough to realize I can’t leave things as they are, with this rift between Gabriela and me, when we have built so much already. Or maybe I really do miss my daily taco fix that much. Whatever it is, I’m soon darkening her door again.

She is at the counter taking care of some bookkeeping. It’s early enough in the afternoon that there are no customers waiting. She peers out at me, looking as enticing as ever, and I get to see her brown eyes wavering for just a moment before I drop my gaze. I stare at the counter as I approach. I can’t look at her. It’s taking all my energy just to shuffle my feet forward.

With my finger, I trace out a scratch in the laminate counter top, a deep and ugly scar that mars the otherwise smooth surface. I don’t say anything. My throat is too tight and dry.

“Angel, I’m so sorry—”

“Can I still work here?” I manage to croak out. “I mean… You don’t have to pay me. For tacos? I really miss your tacos.”

I feel the gentle press of her finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to hers. Her eyes are moist in the corners, and I want to dab them dry. My stomach knots. I feel like this is my fault.

Gabriela looks out at the dining room. There are only two customers, and they appear to be stragglers from the lunch crowd, who have already finished eating and are now just socializing.

“Will you come with me, please?” She takes my hand and I follow, though this time I am trembling slightly at her touch. She says nothing further and leads me to the back of the kitchen near the delivery door that also serves as the emergency exit.

“I’ve owned this restaurant for sixteen years, Angel. Before that, it belonged to my parents.” She’s still holding my hand, but looking at the floor now, and I sense that I am not the only one afflicted by the tremors. “This restaurant is all I’ve ever known.”

I squeeze her hand gently, in what I hope is a silent gesture of reassurance, but I have no words to offer.

“Angel, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“You’re not that—”

“I’m thirty-six, honey. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

Now it’s my turn to stare at the floor. This is the part where she tries to let me down easy. Explain how it could just never work out between us. I sigh.

“But, I’ve given it some thought,” she says, as she lets my hand slide from hers.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, never looking up.

“Angel. Some things in life are worth the risk.” She pauses. “You’re worth it. So I’m willing to give this a chance if you are.”

My entire body lurches, as if I’ve just put my finger in a live electrical socket. “Um, you’re—?”

“Yes, Angel.” She takes my face in her hands and gently coaxes me to move my gaze to hers. “I don’t pretend to think that it will be easy for us. Different ages. Different cultures. Some things will be—”

“You make it sound like we can’t possibly—”

“I’m saying it will be tough, that’s all. But I’m willing to try. Are you… my Angel?”

And for the second time in so many weeks, our lips meet. But this time when we part I am treated to Gabriela’s smile, and those cute little crinkles around her eyes. It is as if everything stops for me, and my only perception is of those eyes—nut-brown eyes, with flecks of amber around the outsides—and the thudding of my own heart.

We fall together in a long embrace, hiding out back there in the depths of the kitchen, until finally, reality sets in. There is a customer at the counter. I glance at the clock on the wall. Four o’clock. Things would be picking up from here. I let Gabriela slip from my embrace and move to find an apron.

It seems that the never-ending line of customers is the way I’m defining my life these days. I’m hustling plates out to customers as quickly as Gabriela can put them together. ‘Ah, here comes my Angel.’ That’s what the regulars have started saying when I show up at their tables. I always smile when I hear that.

My own mother even came in one evening. I was a little embarrassed that she ordered her tacos with cheese and sour cream, and she didn’t exactly come out to say that being a waitress was not the way she thought I should be spending my gap year, but the undertones were there.

Thankfully, she only stopped in the one time.

Mostly it was just Gabriela and me hustling to keep things moving as more and more people seemed to be drawn to her restaurant. And at closing time, after everything was cleaned up and put away, we would linger at the front door, longer and longer each evening.

It always started out the same. Gabriela would offer me a ride home. I would assure her it wasn’t that far, and besides where would she fit my bike in that little car of hers. Then we would kiss. She would hold me close and tell me to be careful going home. I would assure her that I would. Then we would kiss some more.

Parting, as they say, was always such sweet sorrow.

Until Saturday night, that is. It was a particularly busy night, and the stream of customers seemed almost endless—until, finally, they trickled off just before closing time. I had been running all night with orders, and I still had quite a bit of pent up energy, as did Gabriela.

“My Angel,” she says, and latches onto me, whirling me around in her arms, right there in the center of the dining room. She’s grinning, and it’s infectious.

I give her a peck on the lips.

Gabriela pulls back, reaches into the pocket of her apron and presses something into my hand. I look down. It’s a wad of twenties, maybe two or three hundred dollars at first glance.

“What’s this?” I say.

“You didn’t think I was going to pay you in tacos forever, did you?” She squeezes my hand to close my fingers over the bills. “Take it. Business is good. You’re a big part of that.”

I drop my gaze to the tiles under my feet. I can’t look at her. I don’t know why. Suddenly I’m shaking, like when we first met, when I would admire her from a safe distance.

“It’s not… I don’t work here for the money.”

“Shh,” she says. “You’ve earned it.”

I feel her finger under my chin. I know her well enough to know that she always does that when she wants me to snap out of my funk and look at her.

I gaze into the dark pools of her eyes. She reaches to touch my cheek. I am moving my hand to the back of her neck as her eyes begin to narrow and her lips part slightly. I can feel the warmth of her skin under my fingers; hear the quickened rhythm of her breathing.