Hideaway (Devil's Night 2)

Unrolling my napkin, I sat down and grabbed the fork and knife inside, starting to cut one of the filet mignons my mom said would be waiting in the refrigerator.

She remained on the wall, and I dropped my elbows, losing my patience. “Sit.”

She waited about three seconds, just to piss me off probably, but she finally yanked out the chair and dropped her ass in it.

After setting the bottle of water down, she promptly crossed her arms again. “I don’t like steak.”

Yeah, okay. Whatever.

I decided not to fight her on it.

Even though I kn

ew she was lying. It was an excuse, so she wouldn’t have to be cordial for a meal with me.

I mean, who the hell didn’t like steak? Unless she was a vegetarian, and no offense, but I got the impression she grew up eating whatever she was given. And more often than not, that was probably McDonald’s and other peoples’ leftovers rather than organic broccoli and fucking almond milk.

I dropped my eyes, looking at the plate holding the food. Baby potatoes, green beans, and a thick chuck of steak that I knew would cut like butter.

I was suddenly lost in thought. We were probably more alike than she thought.

I set my knife and fork down, my stomach groaning at the smell of the charred edges I loved on my meat.

“When I was little,” I told her, leaning back in my chair, “we lived in this crappy, two-bedroom apartment in the city.” I drifted back there in my mind, trying to remember every detail. “The holes on my bedroom walls were so deep, you could smell the weed our neighbors were smoking and the curry the lady upstairs was cooking.”

I stared off at the tablecloth, remembering the flights of stairs we climbed every day, my poor mom with me in tow.

“My mom did her best to make it nice, though,” I said, remembering my scratchy drawings she decorated the walls with. “She was really good with money and making a little go a long way.”

Banks remained quiet.

“My dad was finishing school and working all the time, so he was barely ever home,” I explained. “I ate mac and cheese so much, I never asked what was for dinner. Not that I cared. Mac and cheese is awesome.” I gave a half-smile. “But my mom would do her best to make it all gourmet and shit. Pile it over some bread and add a sprig of parsley.”

I don’t think I’ve had mac and cheese since we left that apartment, now that I think about it.

“I remember one night—I was like, five—my dad came home,” I continued, my voice quiet like I was talking to myself. “And I’d already eaten. Mac and cheese, of course. I was sitting, watching TV, and she put a steak in front of him at the kitchen table. I still remember hearing it sizzle on the plate. The way the butter it had sautéed in smelled. He was livid.”

I remember him looking up at her from his chair, this mix of anger and confusion. My father had been used to doing without. He grew up poor. But my mother hadn’t. She came from a wealthy family and left a rich fiancé forced on her in order to marry my father. She was disowned. My grandparents had still never met me.

“’How could you waste the money?’” I repeated my father’s words to her in his stern voice. “‘If my family doesn’t eat steak, then I don’t eat steak.’ But my mother said that important men eat steak, and she didn’t want my father to forget that he was an important man.”

I raised my eyes, forcing a smile as I looked into her eyes. “Instead, he became a great man, and now we can have steak any time we want.” I dropped my gaze, mumbling under my breath as I absently nudged the plate away. “I don’t even need to be important.”

I wasn’t important.

Not yet.

My father worked his ass off to give my mother back everything she sacrificed in choosing him, and how did I repay him? I fucked around, driving cars he paid for and eating anything I wanted, no matter the cost. I didn’t earn a damn thing.

I was nothing in the shadow of what he’d accomplished.

I took my trust fund after I got out last year, invested a lot of it, and tried to make something of myself, but the black cloud of being labeled a criminal still hung over me. I could always see it in his eyes. I’d never be able to erase the shame.

My eyes stung, and I blinked, looking away. I didn’t deserve to be at this table, let alone eating his fucking meat.

But then I saw her move. I looked up just enough to see her unroll her napkin, taking out her silverware. Slowly, I watched as she cut into the meat, slicing off a piece, and timidly put it into her mouth.

She chewed softly and then suddenly squeezed her eyes shut, putting her hand to her mouth.