Her Prison Pen Pal (Love Behind Bars)

This is it. Make or break. If she hates me, so be it. It will just take longer to convince her she’s mine.

I know that in my soul already. Mine. All fucking mine.

But there’s other shit to deal with, too. There’s the small matter that I never mentioned to her brother: that she and I have been writing to each other. A lot. When he offered me a place to stay and a job, when and if I ever got parole, I knew I should own up, but I didn’t.

I could have told him if I really wanted to. But fuck no.

The truth is, I have other options. I could look up my sister, get my hands on my inheritance and start over anywhere I wanted.

But, there is only one place I want to start over. Only one place I want to be. And he offered it up to me on a silver platter. Here. With her.

“I know you’ll help, man. Relax.” James grips my shoulder with a reassuring shake. “My dad’s a hard ass but under that crusty exterior he’s a marshmallow. My mom will dote on you like you’re her own. And my sister, Daphne…” He laughs, shaking his head.

Daphne.

“She’s a piece of work,” James says. “I’m sure it won’t be long before she’s recruiting you to volunteer on her dog outreach.”

I nod, gritting my teeth, adrenaline surging through me at the sound of her name. Pretending I don’t know her. Pretending I haven’t memorized her smooth, looping handwriting. Pretending I haven’t imagined her every night when I fall asleep.

I managed to sneak in one question while we drove about Daphne. Back at Cleary, he talked about her a bit. Said she’d never even been on a date as far as he knew but driving, getting close, I had to know. I threw it out there like it was just some off hand, trying-to-make-conversation sort of question, Your sister still not had a date? No boyfriend?

James gave me the answer I wanted, adding on that anyone she might decide to take a second look at, would have to come through him first, then their father. He said she didn’t even go to prom because all the guys were too scared of her brother and father. He added, she didn’t seem to really care. I appreciate their protectiveness, but soon they’ll need to know, that job is mine.

It’s go time.

There’s a lump in my throat and my mind is fucking racing. I’ve had the displeasure of being a guest at several of Michigan’s Corrections facilities, but not one of them had me this fucking nervous walking inside.

As James hops out of the driver’s seat, I grip the handle and suck a breath through my teeth.

I feel like a fucking duck on roller skates as we make our way up the uneven concrete walk to the front door. A sign above reads The Fosters Est. 1975, surrounded by a homemade floral wreath. From somewhere inside, I hear barking from what sounds like a whole pack of dogs.

Holy fuck. This is it.

As James opens the front door, I see a man sitting in a faded brown recliner in a living room to my right. He looks over from his open newspaper, then folds it neatly, setting it on a table next to him as he stands.

He’s as tall as James, but thicker. Less hair. Lines dig into his face but there’s a warmth in his blue eyes even as he inspects me, shoving his hands down into his worn blue work pants. His shirt is smeared with grease, the name Walter embroidered over a red patch with Foster’s Garage printed in the center of a tire-shaped logo.

I’m more thankful than ever for the clothes James brought for me. Leaving in the state-issued stiff khakis and denim shirt felt like a neon sign telling everyone I was a con on his first day out.

But I didn’t give a fuck what strangers would see. It was about coming here to meet his family.

To meet Daphne.

And never has a cheap flannel shirt and an unbroken pair of Levi’s felt better.

I nod and extend my hand as I approach. The dark indigo of my full sleeve of ink shows on my wrist. India ink. Prison art. And he knows it.

He regards me in silence before offering up a handshake which I take, holding it a second longer than necessary, with a hard squeeze on the end that says, Don’t fuck this up.

I’m going to do everything I can not to.

James stands between us, nodding as he takes on the introductions. “Dutch McCabe, this is Walter, my dad. Dad, this is Dutch.”

His chest fills with a deep breath as the sound of a woman singing Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’ chimes out softly from what I guess is the kitchen through an archway behind him. The barking from earlier grows louder as I hear small but heavy footfalls sounding on the hardwood.