Page 93 of His Promise

ABI

The diner looks like something you’d see in a movie. A row of booths lining a long stretch of windows. Red spinning bar stools at the counter. A register that chimes when it opens. The waitresses wear these hideous tan dresses that are part of their uniforms, with an apron wrapped around their waists.

I don’t know if Devin chose this place because he wanted to remind me where I came from, or if he picked it because it was close. The sun set, and every time I peered back at Zeke, alone and scared in the back seat, he was slouched forward with his arms crossed over his stomach. It’s his tell for when he’s hungry.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Devin didn’t object to stopping for something to eat. I shouldn’t have been surprised when Devin told Zeke to order whatever he wanted, and I shouldn’t have been surprised when Devin ordered the same thing.

It isn’t mercy and it isn’t a father trying to do right by his son. It’s a lesson. I don’t know what it’s a lesson for yet, but I know Devin.

Devin shows no mercy.

“How is it?” Devin asks Zeke, a smile on his face. I hate that fucking smile. It’s so fake, so deceptive.

Zeke chews and swallows a tiny bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. “It’s good,” he says, his voice weak. I add it to my mental list of things that Devin is bound to punish Zeke for when we get home… or wherever we’ll be going. If I’m even going with them.

“What a review,” Devin says. He picks up his own sandwich, leaving one of his hands on my knee, and I scrunch my brows at him. I have no idea what he’s trying to do.

“You don’t have to—”

He pinches the flesh just above my knee, and I inhale a sharp breath.

“What’s good enough for my son is good enough for me. I wouldn’t feed my son trash if I wasn’t prepared to eat it myself. Would you?”

I shake my head, but my eyes narrow. His fingers pinching my skin let up and he removes his hand from me to use both hands to take a bite of his sandwich. He chews slowly, a putrid look coming over his face, meant to be dramatic. I don’t know if it’s for Zeke or if it’s for me.

Devin tosses the food back in the little red basket, swallows, wipes his mouth with a napkin and addresses Zeke.

“So this is what your mother has been feeding you, huh?”

Zeke slouches in his seat instead of responding.

“And these are the kind of dumps she took you to? Where did she have you sleep? By the dumpsters out back?”

Zeke pushes his basket away and shakes his head.

“Zeke.” Zeke meets Devin’s eyes. “When someone asks you a question, you’re expected to answer.”

“We didn’t sleep by dumpsters.”

Devin chuckles and leans back in the booth. He puts his arm around me and tugs me close. I lean into him instead of recoiling, and I hate that all my habits haven’t been broken like I thought. They’re all right here, like I’m forever conditioned.

“I had a look at that apartment you've both been staying in,” Devin looks at me, his voice neutral but fire in his eyes. “And I’d say that’s pretty close to a dumpster. Wouldn’t you agree, Abigail?”

His jaw begins to clench when I don’t immediately answer. I nod. “I suppose so.”

“Well, enough of that.” He turns to Zeke with a smile. “We’re going home and this,” Devin gestures around the diner, “will be behind us. No more dumpsters. No more garbage food. How does that sound?”

Zeke shrugs and I don’t look at Devin’s face to see his response. I don’t need to.

He shifts his arm over my shoulder to subtly dig into one of my pressure points. He wants me to agree. He wants me to apologize for the way we’ve been living, and he wants Zeke to think I did him wrong by it. That’s the point of this. That’s why he chose this dainty little diner. To show it’s wrong. It’s trash. It’s far from the life Devin can give all of us. He’s trying to pull the same shit on Zeke that he pulled on me when I was eighteen.

I can’t believe it worked.

He lets off the pressure point when a waitress comes to our table and asks how everything is tasting. He pulls his arm away from me entirely and begins working his charm, lying outright to her about the food being wonderful and asking if she cooked it herself. It’s a subtle dig she’d never pick up on, and she giggles and smiles before answering like a high schooler on a first date. She’s clearly nervous in the butterflies-in-your-stomach way, and as he begins openly flirting with her, I wish this wasn’t just a game to him. With all the affairs he’s had over the years, never once did he fall in love. Never once did he try to leave me.

How could I be so unlucky?

I take one look at Zeke, staring down at his barely touched food with sadness in his eyes, before I stand from the table. “Excuse me,” I say, heading for the bathroom.

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