Friday nights at “The Lily Pond” were normally busy, nearly packed wall to wall with loyal diners craving Monica Xu’s Dim Sum and Egg Fried Rice and Mother Huang’s Mooncakes. The fast-paced dinner rush requires a delicate combination of excellent customer service and speedy deliverance of food, all of which he’s mastered in the years he’s spent working in his parents’ restaurant. However, tonight Lucas might as well be a newbie with no server experience whatsoever; he’s distracted and barely engaging with the customers like he should. Onyx black eyes keep darting to the entrance of the restaurant, wide-eyed and searching. Every movement in the corner of his eye, every person that walked by the windows drew his gaze to the double doors as his heart raced with anticipation before dulling in disappointment. Every few minutes or so he would fiddle with his shirt sleeves, readjust the collar, smooth down his apron while he waited…waited…waited…

“Lucas!”

He jumps and grimaces after getting a heavy, leather-bound menu to the back of his head, rubbing at the sore area and carding thin fingers through wavy, short locks. Brandon Xu gives his son the Stern Glare of Disapproval after finding him lingering too long near the host desk, obviously distracted. He’s blocking Lucas’s view of the front door, but Lucas knows better than to pay attention to anything other than his father right now when he’s obviously this disappointed.

“Hey…Dad,” he says, trying not to sound or look like someone guilty of being caught doing the opposite of what he’s supposed to be doing

Brandon’s frown deepens and he sets down the menu he used to reprimand his son with before crossing his arms, “What is wrong with you tonight?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?” Lucas plays dumb, which isn’t helping his case because his father looks less concerned and more irked the more his son speaks.

“You’ve been spacing out all evening! You called the Morrisons by the wrong name, took a sugary drink to a customer that we know has Type 1 diabetes and nearly had new customers walk out because you were paying such little attention to them when they were giving their order, you asked them to repeat it three times.” Brandon’s voice never raised, but Lucas’s shoulders tensed themselves as if it did; his father had a way of making every quiet word he spoke the most intimidating when he wanted to, especially when upset.

“I…I’m sorry, dad,” Lucas says, sheepish and apologetic as he fiddles with the small, black stud in his right ear, “I’m just a little off my game, but I’ll do better.”

Brandon held his stance for a moment longer, long enough for Lucas to feel just that much more nervous, before he softened and his arms weren’t crossed as tight anymore. Instead of disappointment, concern filled his dark eyes once more and pulled down the corners of his lips. “Are you sure that everything’s okay? Is something bothering you?”

“No, it’s nothing, Dad. I’m fine, I swear,” Lucas insists, offering the older man a disarming smile, the same one he uses to wheedle himself out of trouble, “I’ll apologize to the customers. I won’t mess up anymore.”

“Is everything okay? Lucas, what’s wrong?”

Lucas has to resist rolling his eyes when his mother sweeps over to them from the kitchen, the sleeves of her red chef’s jacket rolled up and her long, black hair twisted into a neat braid. Monica’s eyes shimmer with worry and her small mouth frowns as she takes her son’s face in her hands, the smell of shrimp and some other seafood wafting from them.

“Are you hurt? Sick? Do you need medicine?” she asks quickly, pressing the back of her hand to Lucas’s forehead, “Do you have a fever?”

Lucas takes his mother’s hands from his face, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head, “No, Mom! I’m okay. I’m not sick. I’m fine.”

Monica pauses for only a moment before turning to her husband, “Maybe we should send him home.”

“What?! Mom, no! I don’t need to go home!” the boy objected.

“You remember how often he got sick as a boy, don’t you? One day he’s fine and feeling just ‘a little off’ and the next he’s throwing up and bedridden for three days!” She continues, eying her son with further concern, “Maybe you should go rest, my son. We can’t have you falling ill.”

“Your mother may be right,” Brandon mutters, studying Lucas carefully and stroking his strong chin.

Lucas feels panic welling in his chest and shakes his head firmly, “No, no! I don’t need to go home! I have to be here. I need to stay here. U-Uh…we n-need all the help we can get; it’s a full house.”

He feels his cheeks burning red when his parents regard him quizzically, obviously wondering why he needs to be at the restaurant. It wasn’t that Lucas ever tried to get out of working his shift that often…it was just how desperate he was to stay for his shift this time around. The thought of revealing to his parents the real reason he wanted to stay and help- and not just because he was a good son- made his stomach churn.

“I can stay. I can work. I don’t need to go home. I’m fine,” he insisted, looking between his parents.

They said nothing, turning to each look at each other thoughtfully while Lucas stood there, sweating bullets.

“Hey, Dad, this order is for Ms. Grier, right?”

Three heads whipped sharply to the host desk just as another young man came around behind it, lifting two white bags onto the surface. Lucas felt irritation burning in his chest that only grew hotter when his brother smirked knowingly at him, their parents none the wiser as they turned to the older boy.

“Michael, where are the girls?” Brandon asked of his oldest son, glancing around the lobby.

“They’re in the kitchen with Grandma. They had a craving for some Mooncakes and we didn’t have any more in the house, so I brought them down here to get their fill,” he replied, tapping the container in one of the bags, “So, for Ms. Grier, right?”

“Yes, why? Is something wrong with it? We didn’t forget anything, did we?” Brandon asked, his brows pinching together the same as his wife; she had been the one to cook the meals and box them herself.

The oldest son waved his hand and shook his head, “No, no, everything’s there. I was just verifying. Do we know who’s coming to pick the order up?”

“More than likely Pharah, as always. You know how busy Ms. Grier is, especially on Fridays.”

“You’re right. Just double checking. That way I know who I will be greeting when they come to get it. I’ll be hanging out up here until the girls are ready to leave.”

Had it not been for the laws of the land, and the fact that their parents were standing right there, Lucas would have attempted murder upon the cocky, teasing smirk of his brother’s face. ‘Attempted’ being the operative word because unlike Lucas, Michael was rather tall, intimidating and physically stronger and would have flattened Lucas like a pancake without tousling a single strand of perfect hair out of place.

It was already unfair that Michael was a near carbon copy of their father- from his strong, handsome face, angular jawline and deep set eyes to his broad shoulders- while Lucas held more of a resemblance to their soft-featured, doll-eyed, slender mother. Did he have to be effortlessly stronger than Lucas, too? Why did Lucas, literally, get the short end of the stick?

Their mother was a short woman at 5’5” and Lucas barely cleared 5’7” while Michael towered over all of them at 6’…he digresses.

“Alright, then. Thank you, Michael.” Brandon turned again to his youngest son, still rather unconvinced that he should be allowed to stay and work, but sighing in resignation anyway, “If you’re sure that you’re okay, Lucas, then you can stay and finish your shift, but no more foul ups! We don’t need you making work harder for the other servers or us, understand?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Brandon and Monica took another minute to study their child before they both departed back to work, Monica rushing into the kitchen and Brandon donning his warm and welcoming smile for the customers. Once they were out of ear and eye shot, Lucas turned a deadly glare onto his older brother who was already smirking in preparation.

“Something wrong, little brother?” he drawled, propping his elbow up on the desk and resting his cheek in his palm.

“I hate you and your stupid, smirking face!”