“Are you and Davis…?” I trail off, waiting for her to look up at me.
The only sign she heard me is the little tic in her eye that I know means she doesn’t want to talk about it. “Pointless.”
“Why?”
“You know I don’t date. Being asexual and all. Also, look at what we do. There’s no way he’d… anyway it doesn’t matter.”
Now my gaze turns hard. “Claire.”
She waves her hand dismissively at me as she steps off the elevator. “Doesn’t matter, Trevor.”
It does matter but neither of us are very emotional people, so I don’t know how to goad her into talking about it with me. Usually I just wait people out, instead of pushing them to talk. Maybe on the drive to the prison Claire will open up.
We quietly climb into her fancy sports car, and she peels out of the garage into the bright spring sunlight. Once we’re out of the city, we roll the windows down for a blast of crisp air.
The few hours’ drive passes dully, especially since Claire stays buttoned up, her eyes firmly on the road. Her fingers are so tight on the wheel that I’m worried she might permanently lose blood flow. I go to speak, say anything, just fucking words, but she turns the radio up to preempt me from putting my foot in my mouth. Thank you, Claire.
With every mile we get closer, the harder my heart pounds against my ribs, until I feel almost dizzy with the force of my racing heart. Claire parks the car in the lot after we check in at the security gate.
Since she’s not on my mother’s visitor list, she can’t join me, and for some reason that causes me even more anxiety. Seeing my mother alone is like going up against an army.
Anxiously stepping out of the car, I brush off my crisp black suit, doing my best to get out the wrinkles that formed during the drive. My reflection in the window of the car shows my blond hair messy, windswept. That won’t do at all. Mother will hate it.
I walk around to Claire’s side of the car and dip down, patiently waiting until she rolls down her window. She aims eyes full of the brimstone of Hell as I wiggle my fingers at her with the small, anxious smirk I’ve perfected over the years.
“Bobby pins?”
Claire sighs in abject irritation, but still fumbles around in her purse for a few bobby pins anyway. I move over to the back window, then do my best to get my hair into the semblance of a short cut style. It’s hard, considering my hair's current length, but once it’s good enough, I head towards the prison without a backward glance. Head up, back straight, take no shit.
The sterile prison and fluorescent lights greet me like a slap when I step through the noisy automatic doors. Once through the metal detector, I head straight for the check-in desk.
“Here for?” the older female guard asks. She radiates annoyance and yeah, me too, lady.
I awkwardly clear my throat. “Lyla Shaw.”
The guard rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re here to see Ms. Priss. Look at you.”
Discomfort rolls through me, but I bite my tongue to keep from giving a sarcastic reply. She returns my driver’s license, theone with myrealname, then another guard leads me back to the room where inmates take visitors.
Since it’s a low-security prison, inmates are allowed to meet at tables, instead of behind glass. I almost wish I had the separation though. It would add a layer of protection that my heart so desperately needs.
Unease settles in the pit of my stomach as the guard leads me to the table already occupied by my mother. Her fake smile beams at the guard, but the guard leaves without acknowledging her pretend sweetness. The smile predictably drops the moment we’re alone.
“You could visit more often,” she says snidely.
“I have my own life.”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, clearly already over me. “Doing what? I know you’re working with that Claire girl. Just because I’m in prison doesn’t mean I don’t get informed of your… ways.”
I stare at her, hiding my expression so she doesn’t know she’s gotten to me. “Do you mean being gay? Or being an escort?”
Her expression tightens at my words. Leaning forward, her eyes glare daggers at me. “Don’t get sassy. Did you deposit more money in my account?”
I deflate under her stare, already exhausted from our brief interaction. “Yes.”
A winning grin spreads over her face. “Good. For your father too?”
“Yes,” I repeat dully.
