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The feeling of eyes on me is almost familiar now, like an unwelcome companion that lingers in the corner of my vision. Initially, I wrote it off as paranoia, a side effect of the chaos that had upended my life. But the strange occurrences have piled up. Little things are easily overlooked, yet they accumulate.
A cracked window in the morning when I'm certain I fell asleep without the nighttime air brushing against my skin. The front door, unlocked, when my mind argues I'd turned the key before bed. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's the quiet, trusting nature of this small town unraveling my usual vigilance.
The sensation of being followed and watched gnaws at me, sharp and persistent. I've started to double-check each window and every lock before I go to sleep. I keep a knife hidden beneath my pillow while a bat stands ready by the door. Damien's assurances that he'd leave me alone are as substantial as shadows, present but insubstantial.
Trust is as foreign to me now as the sense of safety once was. I sleep, I wake, and I move throughout my day with a vigilance that has woven itself into my muscle memory. My instincts scream that something isn't right, and I've learned it's better to listen and to prepare. Because if there's one thing that's certain, it's that trust is a luxury I can no longer afford.
”Destiny?” Jacob’s voice penetrates my thoughts. He looks back towards the window before looking at me again. “Are you alright?”
"I'm fine," I manage to say with a practiced smile, though my pulse is still racing. "I thought I saw someone by the window, that's all." I'm not sure he's convinced, but there's no point in alarming him with my paranoia. "Let me get your food now."
"No rush," Jacob says, but there's a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. He slides off the stool, a fluid motion that seems too deliberate. "I’m going to run to the bathroom." His footsteps retreat quickly, leaving a knot of concern in my stomach.
I watch him go with a frown etching my brow deeper the further he gets. His hastiness doesn't sit right with me, but there are orders to fill and no time to ponder over Jacob's odd behavior. Turning on my heel, I push through the swinging kitchen door, and the warmth and clatter of pots greet me as I slip back into the rhythm of the diner. Maggie bursts into the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour and a grin plastered on her face.
"Girl, did you see the way he was looking at you? He’s a hottie," she shrieks in a voice hitting a pitch that's pure excitement.
I roll my eyes. "He's not looking at me, Maggie. And don't call him that," I say, trying to keep my focus on arranging the bacon on the plate in front of me.
However, Maggie is relentless. "Oh, come on. Anyone with eyes can see that Jacob is into you. I mean, why aren't you dating him?" she asks, nudging me in the ribs with her elbow.
I shake my head, feeling a smile tug at the corners of my mouth despite my exasperation. "Because he's not interested, Mag. We're just friends," I assert, but it's like talking to the wall. Maggie's grin grows even wider if that's possible.
"In that case," she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Since you're not going to claim him, I'm gonna put on my best moves. Watch him be in my bed by the end of the night!"
Her declaration is so outrageous that I can't help but burst into laughter. My laughter doubles when I see her check her reflection in the shiny side of the toaster, adjust her hair, reapply some lipstick, and give her cleavage an enthusiastic hoist before winking at me and strutting out of the kitchen.
"Yeah, good luck with that, Maggie," I call after her, still chuckling, and turn back to my work. I shake my head in amusement, and the weight of my earlier unease is momentarily forgotten.
I'm scooping the last of the eggs onto the plate when George walks into the kitchen. His hands are tucked in his apron pockets, and he has that concerned look he gets sometimes.
“How are you doing, kiddo?” he asks.
I glance up while balancing the plate in one hand. “Hey, George. I’m fine,” I reply, but it's more of a reflex than an honest answer.
George arches an eyebrow, his voice laced with humor. “Are you sure? You’re not going to disappear on me again, are you?”
His question reminds me of how I left things when I returned from that messy trip home. I had brushed it off with a vague explanation and a promise to keep my head down and work hard. I hated lying to him. “No disappearing act here,” I chuckle, but the sound is hollow even to my own ears.
“You know I know something happened. You came back pretty banged up, kiddo.” George's face softens, and I know an interrogation is coming. He raises his hand to stop me mid-breath. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. Just tell me if you need help, and I’ll help.”
I look into George's kind eyes, and a surge of gratitude washes over me. It's a lifeline, knowing I have someone in my corner. The concern etched on his face feels like the embrace of family I've been missing. It's not often that someone cares, truly cares, without wanting something in return. In this moment, in the kindness of this man who's been like a father, I feel a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I'm not as alone as I thought.
I summon a reassuring smile. One that's become second nature these days. “You don’t have to worry. Everything is fine now,” I tell him while hoisting the plate a little higher to signal the end of the conversation.
Escaping to the front, I push the kitchen door with a little more force than necessary. I can't help but let out a laugh when I spot Maggie, all but throwing herself at Jacob, who seems to find a spot on the wall fascinating.
“Here’s your food,” I say as I slide the plate onto the counter in front of him.
“Thank you,” Jacob murmurs, quickly pulling away from Maggie's orbit.
My eyes flick to Maggie, and I can't resist. “Maggie, table 12 needs your attention.”
Jacob shoots me a grateful look as she flounces away. “Thank you.”
“Well, as funny as that was, you are a paying customer. Can’t have you leaving and never coming back,” I say with a light laugh.
Jacob leaves for work after his meal, and I find myself wondering, not for the first time, what he does. This is a small town, the kind where everyone knows everyone else's business, but somehow, Jacob's work remains a mystery. He doesn't clock in at any of the local stores; that much is clear. The rest of the day passes in a blur, each moment bleeding into the next. True to his pattern, he comes back like clockwork for lunch and dinner, his routine as punctual as the town clock.
