Cutting them out of my life won’t keep the tears off my face every night. It won’t keep me from reliving the night I ruined my life over and over because somehow that night is now easier to stomach than memories of the last time I saw Izzy curled over in pain. I definitely can’t think about the last night we shared together, how I had to keep shushing her because if she talked then I was going to confess my love for her, and that would only make it harder.
The first letter, the one to Lawson, is easier to write than it should’ve been, but I blame machismo and hope that he understands my reasoning for sending it. He’s a man and as such, he should be able to take a step back and realize he might do the exact same thing if he were faced with the decision to make. Men think more with their heads and less with emotion.
So the next two letters were easy to write as well.
The last letter, the one I dread, stays a blank page for days before I can bring myself to put more on the paper than Dear Isabella.
It sits and taunts me when I get back from the machine shop every day. One day, I hid it under my pillow, unable to even stomach the sight of the two words on the top. Scorpion, being the helpful asshole he is, pulled it out and put it right back on top of the tiny desk we share.
My heart is in my throat the day I finally man up enough to write the words that have been playing over and over in my head. On paper, the requests are very formal, my emotions controlled enough to get my point across and not much else.
Inside my head, hell, inside this prison cell, I’ve never been lower in my life.
Scorpion stands outside the cell, his wide back hiding me from view as other inmates walk by, curious to know why I’m so upset. My sobs should say enough. The way I rage inside that tiny room and tear everything to shreds says what I can’t with words. Broken knuckles keep me from the machine shop for several weeks, but Scorpion demands I work in the laundry during the interim. Since the machine folds the clean sheets, I can’t really argue.
I don’t know how he did it, or what concessions he had to make, but I never got in trouble, never got written up for destroying state property that day in our cell, even though the mattresses had to be replaced.
I was working, every day, waiting for the promise of them fading from one into the next, waiting to look up at the calendar to notice a year had gone by when it only felt like a week. At this point, I’d be happy for a single day and night to feel like less than a century a piece.
Chapter 25
Isabella
I never knew obsession until I held my son in my arms for the first time.
I’m obsessed with his soft, pouty lips.
Obsessed with the tiny whimpers he makes right before he fully wakes up.
Obsessed with the tufts of fine hair on his little head.
I’m even obsessed with his tiny little fingers and toes.
I’m obsessive over spending every minute with him as if he’s going to be snatched from my arms at any second.
Obsessive over who gets to hold him and spend time with him.
I’m just infatuated with this little being.
He’s asleep now, cradled in my arms because the thought of putting him down is foreign to me.
I can’t take my eyes off of him, can’t keep my fingers from brushing down his perfect cheek.
Time no longer exists for me. The days fade into nights which eventually give way to another dawn, but realistically, I know it’s been three weeks since he was born, three weeks since Drew was dragged away in handcuffs, unable to convince the judge he changed his mind. Three weeks of being a single parent, of pain and heartache, loneliness and wishing things were different.
How did I let myself fall in love with him?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
From the second I found out I was pregnant, I knew I was going to face parenthood without the help of the father, but he was supposed to stay gone. He wasn’t supposed to show up one night as Lawson’s brother. He wasn’t supposed to open up to me, share things I doubt he’s ever told another soul. He sure as hell wasn’t supposed to make love to me and then leave.
And it was love. No one can convince me otherwise.
The way he held me close, the way he looked at me when he was inside of me, the way he touched my cheek and made promises with his movements instead of words was a passion I know I’ll never feel again with someone else.
I don’t want anyone else. I don’t think I ever will. If waiting six years for him to come back home is what I need to do, then I’ll happily take that on.
The baby takes a shuddering breath before settling again, and I smile down at him. He’s going to be in kindergarten by the time his daddy is going to be able to dress him for school or attend a function with his class. He’s going to be a walking, talking little miniature version of Drew, having the same eye color and hair just a few shades lighter than mine. We’ll miss Drew, but we’ll survive. There’s always the opportunity for visits and letters.
The time should fly.
I’m not in a position to believe that right now because the last three weeks have dragged on and on, but eventually things will get better. I’ll busy my days with taking care of him and working on my graduate classes. I can make it work.
I stare across the room, looking at nothing in particular as I picture what our reunion will be like. He’ll take me in his arms and kiss me like he’s never going to get to again. I’ll be in his arms, nose buried in his neck. Of course there will be tears, probably millions of them, but nothing will be able to keep us apart.
A soft knock on my door draws my eyes.
“Yes?”
Rather than Gigi or my dad, Delilah walks into the room, a faint smile on her lips when she sees the baby. I’m not unhappy to see her, but it still feels like an intrusion, something I’ve felt each and every time someone comes in here recently.
Then I see her face. It’s dry and free of tears, but it’s apparent that she’s been crying. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes puffy and rimmed in red.
“What’s wrong?”
Suddenly I’m on high alert. The guys are at the clubhouse right now, gearing up for a job so I know it’s not bad news from the field.
“Delilah, what’s wrong?” I snap when she takes a couple of steps closer but doesn’t speak.
Horrific thoughts hit me all at once. Drew was terrified he’d be hurt in prison. Inmates don’t like cops, and since they can’t retaliate against the men and women in uniform who hurt them, they take that anger out on everyone. Cops in prison become surrogates for everything someone in uniform ever did to them or a loved one, some of that anger warranted by the bad apples in the group, but more often criminals hate cops for simply catching them. Their crimes weren’t the issue, the arrest and subsequent incarceration is the problem.
“Is it Drew? Is he hurt?” I barely get the words out, sobs clogging my throat.
My hysteria wakes the baby who begins to whine. He’s not very appreciative of the tremble in my arms as I hold him closer.
“It’s not that.”
I look up at her, trying to determine if she’s sugarcoating the truth, and I find her with her arm out, a letter in her hand.
Fear wraps its cold tentacles around me as I stare at the innocuous envelope, knowing full well it’s the equivalent of a bomb, holding something that’s going to blow my life and hope to pieces.