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“Yeah, I would.”
“Good,” he replies, squeezing my shoulder again. “Then, just follow my lead.”
In that moment, with my father by my side, I feel so much pride and hope that I never want a single thing to change. It’s like the first day of my brand-new life because now I have a purpose. Together with my father, we will save this city. We’ll save their souls and make the world a better place.
My father is a good man, and what we’re doing is good,reallygood.
For the first time in my life, I feel like a hero.
April
The Son
One
Adam
The bell chimes over the door of Sal’s Diner as I pull it open, immediately welcomed by the scent of frying bacon and coffee. The place is packed, and I let out a grumble as I squeeze through the horde of patrons to reach the hostess stand.
The young woman behind the booth greets me with wide eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Mr. Goode,” she chimes happily as she picks up a menu.
“Good morning, Veronica,” I reply with a grin.
She blushes as her gaze lingers on my face for a moment too long, clearly chuffed by the fact that I remembered her name. Then, she spins toward the bar, and her expression falls when she notices that every single stool is occupied, including the one on the corner that I always take.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“It’s okay, Veronica. I can wait.”
“I’m really sorry,” she repeats, looking apologetic, but I shake my head at her as I quietly ease into the corner of the crowded waiting area, pulling out my phone in hopes that it will hide my face enough to not be noticed here.
Apparently, Sal’s has picked up in popularity over the last few months. It doesn’t help that Austin is filled to the brim with trendy brunch spots—it would appear that greasy spoon diners are back in because every hipster tourist or college kid within a thirty-mile radius has started packing in the tiny restaurant each weekend.
Myregular Saturday morning diner.
The only saving grace is that most hipster tourists and college kids don’t know who I am. Unless their parents tuned into my father’s Sunday morning program, they don’t know Adam Goode from Adam Levine.
And my Saturday morning breakfast is the only time I like it that way.
Any other day or time, I’d be happy to smile for selfies or sign their King James Versions, but this ismytime. This is when I get my writing done, where I can really focus and create my best sermons. I usually watch recordings of old sermons on my phone before digging into writing my own.
I have my own office at the church, but I prefer working elsewhere. When I’m here, surrounded by the white noise chatter of the breakfast patrons, I feel as if I can really tap into something deeper.
Someday I might not have this option. I’ll be too busy running the church instead of just writing sermons for it.
Eventually, it will be me at that pulpit on Sunday mornings. But for now, it’s still him.
So, until then…waffles and coffee.
“Just one?” a warm voice chirps from the hostess stand, and I glance up from my phone to see a mess of pink waves on a petite frame standing near the front. “It’ll be about thirty to forty-five minutes.”
The woman’s shoulders sag as the look of defeat washes over her entire stance. “Seriously? I just got off the late shift and I’m famished. Can I put in an order to go?”
The girl grimaces. “It’ll probably take that long to fill the order, to be honest.”
“Fuck my life,” the woman groans.
