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“Hurry up, or you won’t get to go at all, and no, before you say something smart, I won’t care if you piss yourself. In fact, I’d make you sleep in your own piss.”
His cruelness isn’t shocking to me. In fact, it’s expected. He thinks I’m the bad guy, but he doesn’t have a clue. Instead of arguing with him and asking for a little privacy so I can go to the bathroom, I quickly use the bathroom, trying to appear unaffected by his presence.
When I’m finished, he proceeds to drag me back out into the living area. Any harder, and he’d be pulling my arm from the socket. I bite my lip to stifle a cry of pain. I don’t want him to know he’s hurting me, even if I’m sure he knows.
On the table, I spot two lidded plates set out. One has silverware, and one doesn’t. I guess I’m not to be trusted with cutlery.
It hits me, then. There are two plates. Thank God.
“Sit,” he orders, and I take a seat in front of one of the plates before he has an excuse to shove me into the chair. A bottle of water sits beside my plate, and it takes me all of two seconds to uncap it and gulp down almost half of it.
If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. I guess he doesn’t care. Anybody with a soul would think to themselves, huh, maybe I should leave her with at least something to drink if I’m going to be out of the apartment for hours at a time. Not him. He doesn’t give a shit, and it’d be best to realize that now.
“I was afraid for a minute there that you weren’t going to let me eat.” I watch him lift the lid of his plate and barely stifle a moan of pleasure.
Steak. Baked potato. Asparagus.
Forget moaning. I might cry at this point.
“I’m not interested in starving you to death. That would be too easy of a death.” He doesn’t waste any time cutting into his meat.
Eagerly, I lift my own lid from my plate. With all that savory smell around me, I have to struggle against the impulse to shove my face into the plate and not come up for air until it’s empty.
Staring down at my plate, that impulse momentarily fades away when I see nothing but some soggy old French fries and half a hot dog. Yes, half. He brought me someone’s leftovers.
Any other day, I wouldn’t touch this with a three-foot pole, but today, I’m so hungry that I decide to pretend I already ate the other half myself.
Mind over matter.
Using my fingers, I pick up one cold fry and pop it into my mouth. It tastes even worse than it looks, so I swallow it down as fast as I can. The hot dog tastes slightly better and is less dry, so with the next bite, I combine the two. Then wash it down with another sip of water.
Just when I thought we were going to spend the entire dinner in awkward silence, Lucas starts asking me questions. “Where did you live before you were locked away?”
I glance up at him with a grin. “Big castle, up on a hill.”
“Do you think this is funny?” The sternness of his voice doesn’t scare me like it should, and maybe that’s half the problem here.
“I want to know about your past and why there is nothing to find?”
“I’m really not sure what you’re asking about. I don’t have anything to tell. I’m nobody special. Trust me.” My response is so practiced that I don’t even think about the words anymore. I spent my whole life hiding who I was, not telling anyone where I came from or who I was related to.
“I never said I thought you were anybody special.” Could he sound more dismissive? “And I would never trust you in any way.”
“But you can’t stand not knowing all there is to know about me, can you? So which is it? Am I nobody special, or am I haunting your imagination?”
“Enough!” He slams his open palm against the table hard enough to make the plates jump. I flinch before I can stop myself, holding my breath, my teeth gritted.
When he hits me with a curious look, I lower my eyes and keep them that way. He’s made his point. If there’s one thing I know, it’s not to push a man past this point if I can help it. All of this is bad enough without a swollen face to go along with it as a reminder.
Slowly, I continue eating. Somehow, the food tastes even worse than before, but that’s not going to stop me from eating.
For the rest of the meal, the only sounds in the apartment come from his knife and fork, our chewing, and our drinking. He says nothing to me, and I know better than to breathe another word to him.
