“You’re Evan White!” Cried one of the women at the table I was serving followed by a symphony of squeals.

Shit.

Even though I disguised myself with thick glasses and baggier clothes when I went to work, fans still discovered me from time to time.

“Oh My God, I’m a a huge fan! We all are!” She exclaimed, gesturing to all of her friends at her table, her auburn curls bouncing. “Can we get a picture with you?”

“Of course!” I smiled brightly, trying not to think of the fact that my persona online would be tagged as a waiter… again.

Attempting to paste a genial smile on my face, the six women gathered around me and posed for the camera.

Six-hundred thousand followers would be reminded that I work as a waiter at a shitty Mexican restaurant.

Six-hundred thousand followers would be yanked out of the illusion that I was a professional college athlete, who spent his days training hard for them.

Anything that appeared online aside from that was a slap in the face to my fans. But they had to understand that likes and follows didn’t pay the bills…

Luckily there were only two other customers in the restaurant to bear witness: Two men at the bar in suits. I jolted as I recognized the owner with the flaming red hair.

The other guy I’d never seen before, but he was clearly dominating the conversation. He looked like he was about 6’4” and 230 pounds of pure muscle. A pair of stylish glasses adorned his face, an excellently trimmed beard decorated his chin, and his posture was perfectly straight, conveying the air of a practiced politician. But the most fascinating thing about him was the fact that he seemed to be emanating an overwhelming aura of power.

When I glanced over at them, the bigger guy swirled his amber drink. Then, as if he could sense my gaze boring into the side of his face, he turned his head and fixed me with an intense stare that stopped me in my tracks.

I didn’t know what it was about him— the way he moved so controlled and poised, the way his hand gently yet firmly gripped his cocktail, or perhaps it was the way the cocky smirk slid off his face when he saw me.

Whatever it was, something in my gut told me that guy was important.

What had just passed between me and this stranger was gone the instant I heard “Say cheese!” from across the table.

Even though it had only lasted for a second or two, I felt whatever instinct that had been awakened cling to me, as if some obscure mechanics deep within the core of my mind had been permanently altered.

Suddenly I felt an intense fear of what this stranger thought of me. Did he recognize me?

Maybe that was the reason for his intense gaze.

If that’s the look a complete stranger gave me, it filled me with anxiety knowing that after tonight, my carefully curated Instagram account would be polluted by this toxic slice of my real life. I made a mental note to remove the tag later to minimize whatever damage this did to the swim team’s reputation.

When I found a moment to escape, I leaned against a wall in the kitchen trying to calm myself as I listened to the symphony of sounds around me. The chef was cussing repeatedly under his breath to the cadence of the clinking cookware and sizzling sauté.

“You okay, kid?” My manager Bernice asked, popping out of the woodwork. She rested her hand on my shoulder gently.

Warmth spread through my body and nourished my soul. Bernice was one of those people that when they lay a hand on you, it felt like an angel’s touch. She reminded me of my mom before she changed.

“Yeah, just dealing with some picky patrons…” I mumbled with a weak smile.

“Well, if anyone could handle a table like that, it would be you.” She praised earnestly, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Now get your ass back out there!” She chuckled good-naturedly.

Glancing at the bar, I noticed that the two men in suits were gone.

A strange wave of disappointment passed through me that I couldn’t place. Maybe it was sadness that I was left alone with no one but these six rowdy women to pay attention to. Maybe it was the fact that there were no more witnesses to keep them in check.

Whatever the reason, the women kept drinking, insisting on more pictures and subjecting me to their humiliation. I had to play along for what seemed like hours.

When they finally got up, they left the table in a disgusting state; it looked like they’d had a food fight.

Scowling, I picked up the signed bill and peeled it apart; how they got it sticky was a mystery to me. When I managed to pull it open, my eyes zeroed in on the tip line and my mouth popped open in disbelief.

Two zeros looked up back at me, as if the bill had eyes of its own. That couldn’t be right.

“Go home, Evan, I’ve got this.” Bernice said, emerging from behind me. She slopped a sudsy rag on the filthy table with a big plop, then rested her hand on my shoulder.

I tried to fold the bill to hide it but it was too late; she’d seen.

Without hesitation, she plunged her hand into a pocket on her apron. “Here, take this…” she implored, pulling out a wad of crinkled cash. “No one should have to work a table like that and get nothin’.”

“No, I couldn’t…” I protested, knowing for a fact that was her own tip money.

“Take it.” She insisted, meeting my eyes with her warm gaze. She took my hand and pressed the wad into my palm, closing my fingers around it. “I saw how hard you worked today. I want to make sure my people are rewarded.”

Feeling a lump form in my throat at her act of kindness, I accepted the money. “Thank you so much Bernice.”

“It’s the least I could do for our top earner.” She said with a wink, “Now before you go, could you do one last thing for me?”

“Anything.” I said as I tucked the cash in my pocket.

“Clean up those two glasses the owner and his friend left at the bar, would ya’?”

So that guy was the owner’s friend, I thought to myself as I picked up the two heavy glasses. Either way, my heart sunk knowing that this stranger had seen me as a server.

I shook the disappointment off, comforting myself with the fact that I’d probably never see that man again.