Her Prison Pen Pal (Love Behind Bars)

Daphne sits across from me at the table. She smooths her napkin and rubs her lips together like she’s smoothing out her lip balm, while darting a quick glance at me. I adjust the tablecloth to hide my growing hard-on. Christ.

“So, Dutch…” Joan sets a platter of fried chicken down and waves for me to sit as Daphne’s eyes hit me from across the table. “I hope Walter wasn’t too hard on you today. He can be a little less than tactful at times.” She winks at her husband, who grumbles something as he takes his seat at the head of the table.

“Not at all,” I answer, taking in the smells of the food, the Norman Rockwell image of the table complete with a lacy sort of tablecloth. Have I ever been at a family dinner like this? I don’t think so. I can’t even remember the last time I sat down at a dining room table for a meal even before my last stay in prison.

“I remember the first day I met Walter.” Joan gives him a flirty, wistful grin as he motions for me to take my share of the chicken from the platter. “I was waiting tables at the diner. He came in for coffee. My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest the first second I saw him. So handsome. But, he played it cool. Barely looking at me, until…”

James snorts a laugh as I look up and see Daphne’s sparkling emerald eyes glowing. Waiting for the punchline.

Walter picks the story up on cue. “…Until some piece of shit smacked her on the ass.” Walter grunts, then takes a scoop of mashed potatoes from a bowl. He slings the potatoes onto his plate with a thwack. “Dickhead. I spent the night in jail for busting his jaw and sending him to the emergency room. But no regrets. I protect what’s mine.”

Jesus.

He glances my way and I sit up straight on a nod. Apparently, imagining my teeth scattered like Tic-Tacs wasn’t off base at all.

“That’s the way it should be,” I say. I lock eyes with Daphne, whose cheeks turn bright red. Goddamn it. I get a sudden impulse to jump across the table and kiss her right here in front of her family and make it perfectly fucking clear that she’s mine. The muscles in my legs twitch, but I hold myself back. Barely.

“You have family, Dutch? A mom, dad?” Joan sounds hesitant, like she might be asking something painful, but I give her a tight smile as I shake my head. This whole thing, the meal, the family, the talk—it’s magical but so fucking bittersweet. I’ve had no family to speak of for so long, I wonder if it’s something I’ll ever have. Or even deserve.

“I have a sister. My mom died long time ago. Dad more recently.”

“I’m sorry.” She reaches out and takes my hand, and something about it feels familiar. Like when my own mom would make the same gesture. Daphne offers an encouraging smile which eases some of the ache in my heart. “Your sister lives around here?”

Joan’s eyes are eager. She’s sweetly hell-bent on making conversation, which is yet another thing I’m not used to. When prisoners eat, they eat. When they talk, they talk. But they don’t chit-chat over chow. Still, though, I know I have to get used to it and fast.

So I swallow my potatoes and nod. “She does. I have an address for her. Not sure she’d want to see me again, though.”

“I’m sure she would,” Daphne says. “You should look her up.”

“Maybe I will. If you’d go with me. Being a sister yourself, you might be able to help.”

Daphne looks down into her lap, her cheeks flaming hot. I can see her fucking pulse in her throat.

Joan’s smile catches my eye and I manage to look away.

“I’m sure Daphne and James would go with you for moral support, if that’s what you want. But I’m equally sure your sister would love to see you again. That’s what family is about.” She butters her biscuit tidily, just to the edge, not a crumb lost. “Doesn’t matter how much you mess up, they’re still there for you.”

Back down Memory Lane. I think about the last time we spoke, her insisting that I should take my share of the inheritance from dad, his investments, his insurance. How she said it would help turn my life around. I didn’t want any of it. I told her to spend it on herself, that it would be wasted on a guy like me.

It’s yours. I’ll keep it for you. When you’re ready.

Her words ring in my head. I wonder if it’s still there, waiting. Or if she spent it on something or someone more deserving. I don’t want it; I don’t want her to think that the only reason I’m getting in touch is for money. I never even asked for details on how much it was all worth. I didn’t want to know. None of that mattered.