Page 1 of His Promise

ABI

“Can I get another tray of crab puffs, please?”

Jeremy, the chef of this shindig and the mannotso happy to have given me a job, glances up from the hors d'oeuvres he’s preparing. His eyes are held in a permanently narrowed state, so I try not to take the glare he gives me personally. He snatches the metal tray from my hands and spins to the counter that has the crab puffs sitting right there. If he didn’t have the ridiculous ‘no invading his space rule’, I would get them myself.

He arranges the puffs and shoves the tray at me as soon as the last one touches metal, and before I can thank him, he turns back to the hors d’oeuvres. The kitchen is buzzing with equally anxious staff, working as quickly as possible to ensure the guests have a constant stream of champagne and appetizers more expensive than my allotted grocery budget for aweek.

Plastering a smile on my face, I balance the tray on one hand and walk through the swinging door into the dining area of the fancy estate. I can’t tell which of the people dressed in tuxedos and ball gowns owns the place. They all have a glow of confidence that could belong to a candidate for councilman, so I stopped trying to pick out the host a while ago.

“Crab puff?” I ask a slender man with salt and pepper hair. He’s listening in on some anecdote another man is telling, and he waves me off without giving me a glance.

My smile falters some, but as I walk away, I tighten it and continue making my way around the room.

I wish I could hate them. With their haircuts costing more than my rent in my rundown apartment, and their straight shoulders that scream superiority.

Elegance.

Poise.

Esteem.

That’s what Devin always used to say to me. It was a gentle reminder whispered in my ear at events like these. I stiffen as I feel the phantom touch to my lower back, his breath skate over my ears.

These parties are all the same. Different faces, different stories, but the same aura of superiority swallowing up the room. The same tense smiles and high pitch tones that screamfake. I wish I could hate them for it, but I can’t. I used to be one of them.

“How’re you doing?” Kirsten, my friend who helped me get this gig, asks when both our trays are empty and we end up in the kitchen together for a brief minute. She smiles encouragingly.

“This was a mistake.” I whisper so no one else will hear, but with as chaotic as it is in here, I doubt anyone would turn their head if I screamed the admission.

Kirsten frowns and hands off a tray to another staff member. “What? Why?”

I open my mouth and consider telling her the truth. That it’s too familiar, too haunting. I don’t like labeling my ‘conditioning’ to certain things. It makes me sick that my estranged husband could have enough power over me to give me a disorder like PTSD. However, the shiver that runs down my spine every time I catch a whiff of his same expensive cologne in the crowd doesn’t care about my pride. I’m paranoid he’s here. Paranoid someone here knows him and will somehow recognize me. It doesn’t matter how illogical that thought is, considering Zeke and I are four states away from Devin.

But I don’t tell her those things. I can’t. She doesn’t even know I’m married.

“I’m just worried about Zeke. He isn’t used to me not being there at bed time.”

“Didn’t you just pick up a shift at Neon Nights?” She raises a brow at me.

“Yeah, but the tips there are too good to pass up, and he understands. This is…” I try to think of a way to end my sentence that isn’t a simple ‘not worth it’. We both know that’s a lie. It’s true, the Las Vegas night club earns me killer tips, even on weekdays, but I’m getting one hundred and fifty dollars just for serving rich people here for a few hours. That’s enough to buy Zeke the telescope he’s wanting for his birthday in a few weeks.

“It’s the rich dudes, isn’t it?” Kirsten rolls her eyes but gives me a teasing smile. “Don’t be intimidated. Most of them are honestly harmless… and boring.”

I give a tight smile and take back my tray as she hands it to me. “Right.”

“Just a couple more hours, and we’ll be packing up, okay? Hang in there.”

Kirsten balances her tray in the air and sashays from the kitchen, her hips swaying a bit more than necessary. I wonder if she knows how invisible she is to these people.

I take in a deep breath and step toward the door, but I halt and swing my head to my left when a hand plants on my shoulder. I must have a look of panic etched into my expression because Jeremy’s glare eases and he quickly removes his hand. He nods toward the door. “Mr. Gruco is about to give his toast, so stay in here. He doesn’t need any distractions with people exiting the kitchen.”

“Mr. Gruco?” The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place where I know it from. For some reason, I don’t think it has to do with this party.

His brows pinch, and he tilts his head as if he can’t figure out how I managed to even get myself here. “The candidate for councilman of Ward Four. The person who’s house you’re at, and the reason you’re taking home a paycheck tonight.”

“Right,” I say, a bit of my pride chipping away when I lower my head on instinct. I lift my chin and make a point to look Jeremy in the eyes, but he turns and steps away.

I wait around with the kitchen staff for a solid twenty minutes, my eyes wandering to the clock on the wall intermittently in between mentally going over my grocery list for tomorrow. I’ll get some things to make Ms. Gordon a pecan pie as a thank you for watching Zeke so much this week. I think I remember her saying it’s her favorite.

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