Devotion

Zeila

I have never been loved.

Not in the way a mother and father are supposed to love their daughter. No. They abandoned me the first chance they got, or so I was told.

I was raised in a foster home, where we were packed together like cattle headed for slaughter. Too many children, too few beds, and never enough love to go around.

I’ve never known what it feels like to be held by a man. Never known whether his lips would be soft against mine or rough and possessive, as though I were his—and his alone—and there was nothing else in this godforsaken world worth his time.

I’ve wondered about it more times than I’d care to admit.

What must it feel like to be someone’s first thought in the morning and their last at night? To be wanted so desperately that the thought of losing you makes their chest ache?

To be looked at and truly seen, not pitied or tolerated. Not kept around because there was nowhere else to put you.

Loved.

There was a boy, once.

Foster care was a lifetime ago, and I barely remember it. But for a little while, my still-developing heart belonged to him.

What was his name again?

Tate? Timothy?

I swear it’s on the tip of my tongue—

“ZEILA! ZEILA! ZEILA!”

A hand clamps onto my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts.

“Hello! Earth to Zeila!”

I blink until my coworker, Adelaide, comes into focus.

“You’ve been, like, spaced out forever!”

Adelaide is my complete opposite. Her hair is as bright and golden as her personality, and her eyes resemble the sea, flecked with green like sea foam floating on the surface.

Her smile can brighten an entire room.

Sometimes, I envy her. The way she walks into a space and makes it hers, how people gravitate toward her without her even trying.

She’s the kind of woman people remember.

I’m the kind they forget they’ve met.

“Anyway, table six wants a black coffee. I’d get it, but he’s kind of scary.”

She nods toward a man sitting alone in the darkest corner of the café, his head buried in a book.

He’s handsome in a rough sort of way. Dark, tousled hair, a jagged scar along his jaw, and piercing grey eyes moving across the pages.

“Are you for real?” I ask.

“Yes! He’s intimidating, Zeila!

I glance at his book.

“Adelaide, he’s reading Moby-Dick.”

“And?”

"He’s harmless

“You don't know that! Isn’t Moby-Dick about a captain who chases down a whole ass whale for revenge?” She gasps. “What if we get his order wrong and he chases us for revenge?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Please get his coffee?”

I sigh, already reaching for a mug. I’m supposed to be off in five minutes.

“Fine. If he’s such a bother, I’ll deal with him.”

Adelaide squeals and rushes to another table.

The coffee finishes brewing, and I approach the mysterious man’s booth.

“One black coffee.”

He nods, takes the mug, and brings it to his lips.

“Careful, it’s still hot—”

Too late.

His grey eyes lift to mine, and something in his expression changes.

“You’re not my waitress.”

His voice is deep, smooth, and edged with something I can’t quite place. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, yet there’s something old about the way he speaks.

For a moment, I find myself watching his every movement.

“No,” I reply. “I’m covering for her."

"Why is that."

"You scared her."

One eyebrow lifts.

“Did I?”

“She thinks you’ll chase us to the ends of the earth if we get your order wrong.” His gaze drops to the book. "Moby-Dick?"

I nod. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Interesting.”

I straighten my apron. “I’ll be taking care of you for the rest of the night. If you need anything, just wave me down.” He says nothing.

He simply looks at me, as though he’s searching for something hidden beneath my skin. I shift uncomfortably. “Um, do you always get that reaction from women?”

He considers me before curling his fingers around the mug.

“I suppose I have that effect.”

He takes another sip.

“This is decent.”

I stare at him.

“I’m glad it meets your satisfaction.”

“I said decent, I said nothing about it being satisfying.”

Oh, I don’t like him.

Not one bit. I purse my lips, fighting the urge to snatch the mug away.

“Right. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I turn before I can say something that gets me fired.

“Already back?” Francois asks from behind the counter, flipping two pancakes at once.

“Adelaide dumped her customer on me. Once he’s gone, I should be done.”

“Damn! That girl needs to get a grip.”

“She was just intimidated by him—”

“Yeah! and I have every right to be!”

Adelaide appears beside us, carrying two plates.

"Don't be a wimp, Adelaide, that ain't attractive-" Franscios replied, in which Adelaide retaliates.

“You can’t talk! You didn’t come in for a week after those guys broke in and trashed the place!”

Francois points his spatula at her.

“And why would I? The boss had y’all clean the place, and you ain’t gonna see a fine piece of chocolate like me scrubbing floors after lowlifes.”

“You flip pancakes and scramble eggs, Francois. You’re worried about dirt?”

“It’s called having standards, Zeila. Look it up.”

I roll my eyes and help Adelaide with the dishes. Our dishwasher, Carlton, is off again. He’s the laziest member of our staff, and I honestly don’t know why the boss keeps him around.

“Besides,” Francois continues, “I was on my honeymoon. You two are strong, independent women. You handled it, didn’t you?”

Adelaide perks up.

“Oh, yeah! How was your honeymoon?”

I’d been so buried in work I’d almost forgotten he’d gotten married.

“Did you take his name, or did he take yours?” I ask.

Francois’s face lights up at the mention of his husband, Landry.

“Of course he took mine! Very willingly, too. Best two weeks of my life. We drank, sunbathed, had romantic dinners, and Landry got to enjoy this beautiful Black co—”

“FRANCOIS!”

Adelaide’s shriek nearly shatters a glass.

He bursts into laughter while she scolds him for being inappropriate.

I shake my head, smiling despite myself.

Francois really is in love.

Whenever he talks about Landry, his whole face changes. He looks like someone who has finally found a place where he can put his bags down.

I wonder what that feels like.

Is it physical? The warmth of another person’s body beside yours? Or is it something deeper, something that makes the world feel a little less cruel simply because someone exists in it with you?

Perhaps love is what makes being alive feel like more than surviving.

I turn back to the dishes.

Love is a dangerous thing to daydream about when you’ve never had it.

It makes you hungry for something you don’t even know how to recognize.

When I return to table six, the man has finished his coffee. His book lies closed beside the empty mug.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No. That’ll be it.”

He places his card beside the receipt. I process his payment, then notice the tip.

My eyes widen.

“Sir, this is too much.”

“It’s not.”

“But—”

“Take it.”

I hesitate before returning his card.

“Only because you insist.”

He slips it into his wallet and stands, towering over me.

“I hope you can come again,” I say politely.

“Yes. Your services were decent.”

There he goes again.

“Considering the generous tip you left, I’d say they surpassed decent.”

“Consider it compensation. I’m not an easy man to deal with.”

At least he knows.

He starts toward the door but pauses, one hand resting against the frame.

Then he looks back at me.

“It’s good to see you again, Zee.”

My blood turns to ice.

Nobody calls me that, no one except...

I stand frozen as he walks out, the bell above the door ringing behind him.

There’s only one person in my entire life who ever called me Zee.

A boy from the foster home.

A boy whose face I can barely remember.

A boy whose name I’ve spent years trying to recall.

Tate?

Timothy?

Neither feels right.

I press my fingers against the counter, my heart pounding.

How the hell does he know that name?

And why did he look at me as though he hadn’t just met me, but had been waiting for me?

I glance toward the doorway, but there’s nothing except the empty street beyond the glass.

I turn back toward the kitchen. Adelaide and Francois are still laughing, unaware that anything has happened.

I say nothing.

Instead, I grab a cloth and begin scrubbing a perfectly clean pan.

Harder and harder, until my fingers ache.

But I can’t silence the sound of his voice in my head.

It’s good to see you again, Zee.

I remember the way he watched me. The way his expression changed when he first saw me.

And then I realize something that makes my stomach twist.

I don’t just feel like I’ve met that man before.

I think I knew him.

And I’m terrified of what I’ll remember when I finally figure out who he is.