Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(37)

Her chest was still heaving. He waited for her to lower her shoulders, and then he relaxed his.

She unpacked from her protective curl, looked around. “Where are we?”

“I thought we’d get some food.”

She straightened her clothes. “This isn’t a thing, okay? Like some big window into me.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what happened to me. Or didn’t happen to me.”

“Okay.”

“I just have a temper, is all.”

Evan said, “I’d noticed.”

*

They sat in a booth in the far back of the empty diner, Evan facing out. Despite the stuffing peeking through the cracked vinyl benches, the restaurant was clean and tidy and appealed to his sense of order. The aroma of strong coffee and fresh-baked pies thickened the air. A Wall-O-Matic jukebox perched at the end of their table, the Five Satins “shoo-doo ’n’ shooby-doo”–ing in between hoping and praying. Salt and pepper shakers, syrup bottles, and sugar jars gathered around the shiny chrome speaker like children at story time.

From the old-school baseball pennants to the inevitable Marilyn poster, the manufactured nostalgia made the place seem like a location from a TV show, a faux diner set decorated to look like a real diner.

Evan ate egg whites scrambled with spinach and dosed heavily with Tabasco. Joey picked at a stack of pancakes, furrowing the pooled butter with the tines of her fork.

Conversation had been in short supply since the incident in the car.

Evan set down his fork, squaring it to the table’s edges. A few drops of coffee formed a braille pattern next to his plate, remnants from the waitress’s lazy pour. He resisted for a few seconds and then caved, wiping them clean with his napkin.

Joey remained fascinated with her pancakes. Her rucksack rested next to her, touching her thigh, the closely guarded life possessions of a street dweller.

Evan searched for something to say. He had no experience when it came to matters like this. His unconventional upbringing had turned him into something sleek and streamlined, but when he collided with the everyday, he felt blunt, unwieldy.

Then again, he supposed she wasn’t very good at this either.

He watched her eviscerate her short stack.

“If you’re fighting off an attacker—a real attacker—go for the throat or eyes,” he finally said. “Up and under. If you swing for the head, he can just duck, protect his face, take the blow off the top of the forehead where the skull is thickest.”

Her mouth gaped, but for once no words were forthcoming.

He sensed he had said something wrong.

“Are you seriously turning this into a teaching moment?” she said.

The best course of action, he decided, was to consider the question rhetorical.

But she pressed on. “Everything doesn’t have to be some learning experience.”

He thought of his upbringing in Jack’s farmhouse, where every task and chore held the weight of one’s character—making the bed, drying the dishes, lacing your boots.

How you do anything is how you do everything.

“Yes,” Evan said. “It does.”

“You’ve seen me fight,” she said. “I know how to fight. That wasn’t about fighting. It was just … a startle response.”

“A startle response.”

“Yes.”

“You need a better startle response.”

She shoved her plate away. “Look. I just got caught off guard.”

“There is no ‘off guard,’ Joey. Not once you get on that bus in Helena. Not for a second. That’s how it is. You know this.”

She collected herself. Then nodded. “I do.” She met his stare evenly. “Throat and eyes.”

Though the sky still showed a uniform black, a few early-hours patrons filtered in—truckers with stiff hats, farmers with worn jeans and hands that rasped against their menus.

“You’ll be okay,” Evan said. “The farther you are from me, the safer you’ll be.”

“You heard him. He’s not gonna let me go.”

“He’s gonna have his hands full.”

“I think we’re safer together.”

“Like at your apartment? The train station? That pest-control shop in Central Eastside?”

She held up her hands. “We’re here, aren’t we? And they’re not.”

The sugary scent of the syrup roiled his stomach. “This isn’t—can’t be—good for you.”

“I can handle it.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“What were you doing at sixteen?” She glared at him. “Well? Was it good for you? Or is that different? Because, you know, I’m a girl.”

“I don’t care that you’re a girl. I care that you’re safe. And where I’m going? It’s not gonna be safe.”

A patter of footsteps announced the waitress’s approach. “I just started my shift, and already I’m winded trudging all the way to you two back here.” She grabbed her ample chest, made a show of catching her breath.

Evan managed a smile.

“Anything else I can get you or your daughter, sweetie?”

Evan touched her gently on the side, not low enough to be disrespectful. “Just the check, thanks.”