What If

Years.

Not weeks.

Not months.

Years.

The drug laws here are harsh, and the judge on my case is one of the hardest in the sentencing department.

Luck of the draw, Mitchell said.

And bad luck seems to be my middle name.

Inside Mitchell’s office, my mother recounts to him her upcoming itinerary as he gives me a sympathetic smile and my palms nearly soak through the fabric of my skirt where I have them flat on the tops of my thighs.

“So, do you think we can have all this unfortunate business wrapped up by then?” My mother plays with her Gucci butterfly scarf and checks her lipstick in the mirror on the wall of Mitchell’s office. “And kept as quiet as possible. Walter’s so upset the information has already impacted his practice. Drugs are not good for a reputable doctor’s bottom line, especially in his specialty. It’s all just so tawdry. I just can’t believe we are here again.” He looks over at me with a shake of her perfectly coiffed head.

My stepfather is a plastic surgeon, for Christ’s sake, it’s not like he’s the poster child for Doctors Without Borders.

Mitchell ignores her, gritting his teeth, gathering some paperwork and letting out a long breath through his nose before he speaks to me.

“I’ve got the latest statements from Derek and his counsel, as well as some new information from the D.A.” My intestines twist when I hear the lack of any positive tone in Mitchell’s voice.

As much as I have tried to put Torin out of my mind, it’s impossible. Everything that happens, every moment, he’s with me. I long for his hand holding mine, his voice telling me everything will be okay. Something tells me that if he was here, even if it didn’t change the fact of where I’m heading and for how long, I’d be better able to cope with it. I know I made the right choice demanding he stay away, but it doesn’t mean the feelings he etched somewhere on my soul have diminished in any way.

“The D.A. isn’t offering much.” Mitchell starts and cold wraps around my shoulders like a frozen shawl. “Derek is throwing you under the bus. It will be your statement against his, and as shitty as this sounds, he’s the one with the clean record. The security camera footage makes it look like he just had his arm around your shoulders, that you were with him willingly. Nothing shows him putting anything in your purse or looking as though he’s forcing you in any way. The offer on the table now is if you plead guilty, not no contest, the D.A. will recommend a sentence of three to seven years in a federal facility.”

Mitchell sighs as my mother rolls her eyes and takes a seat next to me, crossing her legs and looking my way.

“A federal facility, honey, that’s a relief. It’s practically summer camp from what I hear. If she takes the D.A.’s offer, how quickly will this be wrapped up?”

Mitchell shakes his head and draws his brows together, glaring at my mother.

“It will be wrapped up when it’s wrapped up, when it’s best for Jessie. And I don’t give a shit about your itinerary,” Mitchell snaps, and my mother’s mouth drops open.

“I never—”

“Jessie,” he interrupts her, staring straight at me. “I’ve done what I can do. If you choose to go to trial, I’ll keep doing everything I can. But if you are convicted, it will be ten to twenty years, taking into account your other conviction. How do you feel right now?” He tips his head and comes out from behind the desk to lean on the edge in front of me.

“How do I feel?” I can’t help the laugh that tumbles from my lips. Mitchell has already told me he would represent me pro bono but taking that from him doesn’t help the guilt that feels as though it is pressing in on me from every direction.

“I’m sorry.” Mitchell reaches down to touch my hand. “I wish it was better news.”

“Take the deal. It’s what’s best for everyone.” My mother snaps.

I look from her to Mitchell, feeling the numbness turn to indifference. I barely care anymore.

“If I take the deal, how does that work? When would I have to surrender?”

“If I talk to the D.A. today, you could go as soon as tomorrow.” Mitchell looks like he’s about to cry.

“That would work best.” My mother adds, reaching over to touch my arm. “Right, honey?”

I don’t feel connected to anything. It’s like I’m not even sitting in the chair. I can’t feel my clothes or if the room is hot or cold. It’s like I’m made from plastic and I imagine if I can just keep that lack of feeling for the next three to five years, I might just make it through.

“Call the D.A.” I hear my voice but don’t connect with the reality of what’s about to happen to me. “I’ll take the deal. I’ll be ready to go tomorrow.”