Page 47 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

Eva

I’ve spent my remaining hours during the fifth day on catering to the homeless, an event better that what I’ve usually done, gone faster on my assignments and done all I could to surpass and exceeded Mrs. Rivers’ expectations.

A former employment, before the Rivers Foundations, I previously passed the printed flyers or brochures and something presenting myself by talking aloud by the time they opened the door underneath a hot sunlight was painful, but passing around food on a silver tray and ambled all over the place was freeing.

In one hour break, I’ve spent time on people watching, sometimes strolling in lavish gardens, sometimes hiding away from social events. Social events drained me as much I would like to admit.

When I delivered the last piece of cherry cheese Danish and a coffee to the homeless, the woman commented, “You look dreadful, dear. Did you get enough sleep?”

My head shook in a soft sway. “I…had a good rest.”

The homeless lady smacked her lips; eyes squinted into sympathy, cooing almost.

“But you’re so pretty, you shouldn’t be wasting your potential and worried about us,” the homeless lady complimented. “Why aren’t you spending time with those young people over there?”

Looking over my shoulder, I spotted women at my age playing and joking around, like they’re doing the assignments as a hobby rather than for money going to be provided for the charity event—all simply beautiful and bright-eyed with wide smiles.

“I’m afraid I’m stuck in my duty,” I said, stifled my sadness.

Shoulders slumped; I faced the homeless lady, didn’t bother on nudging my eyes over her sluggish figure, skinny and frail.

Wrinkles set on her forehead and crow’s feet, more pronounced and drier compare to Mrs. Rivers meticulous skin.

The homeless day, in her pink scarf and her black shirt and tattered skirt, was smiling.

I don’t know how to give a proper smile, much to a degree of being told I shouldn’t smile over the smallest things.

I never been taught to smile at a genuine moments, no matter how silly or reoccurring the silly acts, whether listening to a funny song, or a show or movies, or book to read to relish them in a positive direction, for onlookers to appreciate me.

In my hectic occupation, from time to time, people were curious to why I maintained a stoic expression.

Given them an explanation might be futile and compacted a new pressure layering over, like a disease to vulnerability.

“Why won’t you smile?”

“Be grateful you have a lovely face to carry with that frown.”

“Why won’t you smile? This is customer service. Every worker should smile.”

“I can teach you a thing or two about smiling does ‘wonders’ for an everyday occurrence.”

“If you smile, I’ll pay you more that I regularly afford.”

“Girls are meant to be soft and benign."

"Girls shouldn't have dreams to begin with. The moment they're born as girls, they have to be mothers when they grow up.”

“Wives ended having divorce papers signed by their husbands because they don’t give a smile to their spouse.”

“Would you want to be a celibate for life?”

“Not being able to smile is like being in prison; you won’t get anywhere if you were scowling.”

“Mothers and Mother-in-laws never want a woman who’s scowling and defiant, hence why the mother convinced the son to choose her instead of a girlfriend becoming a potential wife.”

“These are what men don’t like: frowning and having too many high standards.”

“Women who frown are the ones who have the highest maintenance.”

Hearing commentaries from neighbors each time I set myself to do housekeeping chores were impolite for my cleanly routine to complete the house in tip-top shape.

But a random lady at a charity event was neither condescending nor severely opinionated. The only thing she pointed out was for me to join the girls.

I couldn’t…control my answer. But my silence could.

“I’m sorry, miss, I have to…get back to my duties,” I said to her.

“Don’t worry too much, sweetie,” she said with a cheeky smile, eyes folded into a squint again. “You’re not missing out on anything. You have so much life ahead of you.”

My head bobbed, in confirmation. “I won’t, miss.”

“Please, call me Magnolia,” she insisted, smiling bright.

I nodded once more. “Alright, Magnolia. Enjoy your cherry cheese Danish and coffee.”

“I will, dear,” she returned, munching the soft-baked dessert as I sauntered away to gather the trays again, but this time, Micah, with his dark-brown tousled hair swished as he heard my footsteps. “These are perfectly tasty. Who made these?”

My shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know. My guess is the baker from Angel’s Cloud bakery store.”

I sometimes go there, when I obtained a little change from Divine family.

Instead of saving it in a tiny jar I kept it hidden on the attic’s floorboards, I spent in at the bakery shop, Angel’s Cloud, and ordered a sweet once in a while, but feared Sister Jane or Brother Josh might caught me and yanked me all the way to Divine household to punish me.

Marceline was a talented and carefully constructed baker who uses right measurement in ingredients and knows the right temperature for the baked goods for her customers to relish her gift.

“Miss Marceline,” the beggar chimed in dreamily. “I’d figured she’d be the type of baker to bake all perfection.”

“Sister Eva, perfect you’re here,” he said, his arms extended outwards. “I’ll take those.”

I gripped on the trays tighter. “Are you sure?”

His face scrunched, still insisting. “I’m sure. You must be tired from walking all over the church grounds,” he joked a bit, his toothy grin formed.

But I didn’t smile, though in the end, I shot at him with a small and dry gesture on my lips.

His skin glistened from a blistering sunlight. This job must’ve taken a toll on him, but Micah didn’t let it affect his whimsical attitude.

A few girls liked him. He’s nice, a gentleman, to some extent.

Very boy-next door, one that girls liked to think it’s romantic to see a handsome man who’s dedicated and well-considerate.

Micah insisted, hands splayed out, his persistence was outstandingly overwhelming. Surrendered at his puppy-like eyes, I handed the trays over.

“Besides,” he said, groaning at an extreme weight, loaded in his clinching palms. “It’s my turn to wash the dishes today. Lucky for you, you have a thirty minute break.”

“Thirty?”

Micah nodded happily in a hyper motion. “Mrs. Rivers is particularly in a good mood today. For what, I don’t know.”

It’s true when happiness is a rich person is carefree and on cloud-nine, rich people are the nicest when they’re the happiest.

I observed Mrs. Rivers behind Micah’s broad shoulder.

By the dessert section, Mrs. Rivers chatted with a taller man, who is a couple years younger than her, drinking his coffee in a foam cup, cackling and making jokes.

But then again, how young is young? Some older people appeared younger, and younger people appeared mature due to their tall and broad stature, same rule apply for girls.

Strange world I’m living in.

“Hey, so, you want to take a break and show you more of the memes and comments from social media?”

Glancing behind my shoulder, I checked back at Mrs. Rivers in case she was spying on us or eavesdrop our ordinary conversation, so I said to him, “Sure. Not at all.”

Giddied, Micah sat by the nearby bench underneath a leafless tree, he showed his phone screen while drinking his water.

The climate in a month of December was complicated.

First it was tepid, then windy, and if its’ at night, the weather has gotten colder.

In Fort Heaven, wintry snow never made its appearance.

As soon as Micah explained the context of a recent video going viral, a roaring engine of a motorcycle busted in.

A few homeless people had their attention targeted at a roaring sound, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Rivers.

Meanwhile Father Divine shaken his head at a disruption, and Sister Jane clung onto Sister Joanne, eyeing the commotion.

“Oh, who was it this time? Surely, it can’t be Adrian Rivers, it’s only eleven in the morning for fuck’s sake,” Sister Joanne claimed in an accusation tone.

“Maybe a new guy in town,” Sister Jane guessed, her eyelashes batted.

Once the man in a brown leather jacket dismounted from his motor bike, he took off his helmet, revealing a familiar coal-black hair and brown eyes, wearing a wide charismatic grin at the crowd.

“Romano!” Vivian screamed as she rushed to greet him.

Other girls followed the suit, wanting a piece of him, cheering for him and welcoming him back.

Father Divine and his family were in awe for Romano reunited the known community, while Mr. Rivers disapproved and Mrs. Rivers was licking and biting her lower lip.

Sister Joanne, however, was entranced, adjusted the shirt to unveil her cleavage, which drove Sister Jane’s face to disgust.

In the corner of my eye, Micah took notice of my sudden paralyze etched across my visage.

“Are you okay, Sister Eva?”

I faced him, after a long trance. “I’m fine.”

***

His name kept replaying in my head.

Romano. Romano Salazar. He’s the member—a former member of the Divine Miracles Church.

Not knowing much of the man other than his part-time drummer and a full-time expert in acoustic guitar, he’s also a charmer; a real charmer to anyone crossed or met him, charmed them with a favorable smile, young and old, placed with kind words through his parted lips.

Anywhere he goes; people’s eyes were captured onto him, like their time was frozen.

Wherever he goes, he gathered crowds for a simple talk or being goofy like he has known and acquainted with them for a long span of time.

Romano’s naturally gifted at that, something I admired.