The alarm on my phone chimes, signalling it’s time to leave if I’m going to make the bus in time. It’s now or never, and so I stand and ask myself for the millionth time today,What am I’m doing?More so:What will today change for him?
His letters always arrive a few days after mine are sent, indicating an eagerness for them, which forces me to spread my own out before accidentally giving him the wrong opinion. A visit says more than a quick response ever could.
He always inquires about me, constantly shifting attention away from himself, which tells me he either doesn’t want to talk about himself, or he’s so deprived of conversation that he’s overcompensating. Today will open another door.
My plan is getting complicated. In a couple months, I’ll be in the thick of finishing and submitting my thesis paper, which means my time of collecting research will be over.
So why the fuck am I going to the prison to meet Cade?
THREE
CADE
The energyin the grim stone hallway is palpable. Visitation days are often like this—or so I’ve heard from the other guys.
An electrified feeling sparks life into my veins, wrists rotating within the cuffs’ tight confines as I shuffle fourth in line, chained to other inmates. We’re being escorted to the visiting room by two guards—one leading and one trailing. We pass a few others lingering, the guards’ beady eyes zeroing in on each of us without finding reason to harass us. My head remains low so as not to meet their eyes, the same way I’ve kept it for the past few years.
Keeping my head down and following the many rules of this place is how I’ve made it this far, and nothing will be messing up the small remaining time left on my sentence. Not when my parole meeting is coming up sometime within the year. Freedom is so damn close—I’m itching for it.
There’s a scattering of visitors, one at nearly every table, and the guys beside me get even more restless as they spot their people. Without my requested picture, I’m stuck only guessing, scanning the crowd for whoever’s not making eye contact with someone else.
Like a bolt of lightning, I spother—my sweet little pen pal, Aspen. It has to be her because she’s the only person not looking at the eager inmates being uncuffed from the lineup and shackled to the metal loops welded into each table.
Ninety-nine percent certain she’s Aspen, I take in what’s visible from my angle. Her hair is a mix of blonde and brown, like she couldn’t decide which colour to go with. She uses it to shield herself from the room. Her shoulders are hunched, and the table hides much of her body.
By the time it’s my turn to be escorted, my skin is on fire with anticipation. The guard—Bennett is his last name, and therefore all I’m allowed to call him—is one of the chill ones. Over the years, I’ve earned many smokes from him, and I get the sense I’ll be working for another one soon to replace Aspen’s scent with nicotine before insanity wins.
He walks me to the farthest table. Maybe she chose this one specifically. Maybe she wants to be alone with me—as alone as we could get in a place like this.
Bennett pushes down on my shoulder as I take the metal stool across from her and mutters, “Behave.” He attaches my cuffs to the loop, giving me just enough leeway to be able to just touch my visitor, should she reach for me in return.
Given the fact I’ve that never met the girl before, I opt to slide my cuffed hands beneath the table, proving to her I don’t plan on freaking her out more than she already is. I won’t survive if this visit ends her letters.
Alone, Aspen finally lifts her head, hitting me like a fucking Mack truck.
If I wasn’t already fascinated by her, I’m a goner now. There will be no going back—no way to inhale stale prison air rather than her honeyed, floral scent, provided by her workplace, I assume.
Obsessed.
That unique hair of hers frames a heart-shaped face—the perfect depiction of innocence—reminding me that she’s twelve years my junior and should definitely not be seated across from the likes of me. I probably did more in my first twelve years of life than she has in all twenty-four of hers.
Her lips are full and red, curled slightly at the corners—uncertain—and I wonder how much darker they could become with the right amount of teasing. Her eyes are equally as striking—a vibrant blue that penetrates right through me. Her nose is a little crooked, and what others would catalogue as an imperfection is something I appreciate because it implies she hasn’t been entirely gentle in her youth—she’s someone who can handle a little roughness.
Just a little. Enough she’d enjoy what I give her while retaining her alluring innocence.
She’s essentially a stranger, and yet, it’s like Iknowher. Make it make sense—because I certainly can’t.
She’s cataloguing me as well, brows dipping as she scans the faded scars on my forearms and chin, the nearly healed cut beneath my eye from a few weeks ago, courtesy of a man I know to be seated elsewhere in this room.
As we study each other, she doesn’t appear outwardly uncomfortable, as her shoulders have slowly uncurled in the passing seconds. She’s nervous, though, shifting three different times, scanning the room twice, and licking her bottom lip once.
“Hey,” I finally say, breaking the silence.
“Hi. Cade.” She scans my neck, where tattoos peek from beneath the orange collar of the jumpsuit, and down my chest. “Your name suits you.”
Well, fuck me.Her voice officially embeds itself into my fantasies—especially my name on her lips. Now, when rereading her letters, it’ll be with her low, inviting voice in my head, one that isn’t nearly as chirpy as I imagined.
“And your voice,” she continues, licking her lip again. “Somehow, I knew it would, but seeing you is different.”
