And what do you see, sweetheart? Are you realizing I’m not all my letters make me out to be?
“Thanks for coming.” That’s the right thing to say, isn’t it?
Now that she’s in front of me, I realize I have no fucking idea what to say to her that won’t scare her off. And that can’t happen. Not after her letters have become my newest drug of choice. Infinitely better than the highs I once chased.
She smiles in response, an upturn of those full lips that brighten the grey stone of this depressing ass building into something relative to sunshine and oceans. She reaches beside her as colour darkens her cheeks, retrieving a red envelope that she slides across the table towards me. Her eyes lift from it to Bennett standing about four feet away with his back against the wall, surveying the entire room.
One doesn’t last this long in jail without knowing the location of every single person who could potentially ruin your day.
She worries her bottom lip and quickly explains, “It’s for you. I asked—you’re allowed to keep it, like the letters. Since Christmas kinda came and went without anything, I figured… I mean, it’sonlya card, nothing major, but something I thought you—sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
She is, but it’s adorable. A massive sparkling personality shoved into such a small frame.
Christmas has long lost meaning around these parts. Those with families might get something small, but misery replaces the general holiday cheer that other homes have. There’s no Christmas Eve to live out traditions, no Christmas morning to open presents and eat an insane amount of food. We have only the grey walls of our cells.
Which makes the envelope in my gripeverything. Coming from Aspen, it’s priceless.
I’m stuck between wanting to tear into the card like an animal and opening it slowly, like the kind of respectable gentleman she’s probably used to. Her pulse jumps in her neck, and she shifts in place again, curling her hands on the table’s surface.
Breaking her stare, I slip a finger beneath the flap and tug out the folded cardstock. The front cover is decorated with a glittery, green Christmas tree made from more cardstock, andMerry Christmasis written in an elegant gold script above. Inside, there’s another message, this one written in the same slightly messy writing I’m used to.
Merry Christmas, Cade!
Aspen
“I, uh, made it by hand.”
Of course she did. Because this girl becomes pen pals with an inmate and visits them only two months and five letters into the relationship. It only makes sense for her to throw personalized homemade cards into the mix.
I slip the card back into the envelope and slide it as close as physically possible, already knowing that later my obsession will come out in full force when I’m memorizing her note—the way it’s written, the slant of her letters. It’ll join the stack of letters hiding beneath my thin mattress.
“I wish I got you something too.”
If it weren’t for the orange on my body and the cuffs on my wrists, damn fucking right I would have gotten her something. A big heart like hers deserves the world.
She shakes her head, and her hair sways with the movement. “No, it’s fine. You’re…” Her eyes bulge, but her obvious slip-up only makes me laugh.
“In prison. It’s okay to say. Not like it’s hard to avoid.” A jiggle of my cuffs draws her eyes down. “As I mentioned before, you can’t offend me.”
“Sometimes I talk before thinking.” A deeper colour decorates her cheeks, turning them a shade closer to the card in my hand.
“Don’t ever stop talking. But now, tell me something. Somethin’ I’ve been dying to know since the first letter. Why become a pen pal to an inmate of all people?”
What are you hiding?
Some of that red pales, which is…interesting. Very telling. There’s a flash of discomfort as she sucks in her teeth and glances at the guard and back.
Careful now. Show your hand too early and it’ll all come crashing down.
Aspen has just made herself more intriguing. Especially when she so clearly lies by answering, “It felt right.”
It led you to me, so of course it’s right.But it’s not the correct answer.
“So does shovelling your neighbour’s driveway, but you don’t seem like the girl who’d be writing letters to criminals.”
Her eyes flash upwards, sharp—defiant.Interesting.“What kind of girl do I look like?”
She’s fucking kidding, right? The kind who’d sneer at a place like this and run far, far away and not be hanging out with a man in prison who’s quite a bit older than her. If she knew what was good for her, that’s exactly what she’d be doing.
