by Dori Lavelle
My breath is struggling to find its way to and from my lungs. I grab my throat and without saying anything to Chelsea, get to my feet and push my way out of the row, careful not to trip on popcorn boxes and empty paper cups. I finally stumble out onto the nearest balcony and grip the rail as I take a deep breath of fresh air.
I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I want to drown out the words I heard on TV. I want to erase the pictures of the covered corpse that was Oliver Banes being wheeled out of Oaklow University.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump. I turn around so fast my head spins.
“Milton, what the hell.” I try to calm my breathing. “Why are you sneaking up on me like that?”
He chuckles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I swallow hard.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He reaches out to touch a lock of my hair, but I move out of his reach.
“That’s because you scared the shit out of me.”
He drops his hand and tips his head to the side. “I’ve never seen anyone look so cute when they’re frightened.”
“Why are you here, Milton?” My question is stupid, because like me, he has every right to be on this balcony.
“I saw you walking out of the movie room. I thought it was the perfect opportunity for us to talk.”
“Talk about what?”
He leans against the railing and licks the corner of his lip. “About you coming to dinner with me.”
I shake my head. He’s almost as bad as my mother.
“Milton, when are you going to get it? I’m not interested. Thank you for the flowers. Thank you for the notes. But I’m not changing my mind.” It dawns on me that I’m being a bit too harsh. I place a hand on his shoulder. “Look, you’re not a bad guy. I’m just not interested in dating right now.” I drop my hand and my eyes.
“I want to be the guy who helps you change your mind.”
“You never quit, do you?”
“Not when I like somebody. And I really like you.” He lowers his voice. “I think we could be good together.”
“Are you sure you don’t just want to sleep with me? Word around campus is that you’re not really a relationship kind of guy.”
“All lies.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, maybe that was true in the past, but not anymore. The first time I saw you, I became a changed man.” He leans into me and whispers, “Ivy Hollifield, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I lean a few inches away to avoid his popcorn breath on my cheek. “I’m interested in nothing more than friendship. That’s all I can offer you. Take it or leave it.”
“Come out on a date with me. Give me one date and I’ll change your world.”
I laugh out loud and shake my head. “I do like one thing about you. You’re funny. But the answer stays no.”
“I’m glad I make you laugh. I’ve noticed you don’t do much of that.”
“You’re perceptive. I’m working on it,” I admit.
“I want to teach you how to laugh. Let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I like you, but not… like that.”
“That’s a shame.” He pauses for a moment, glancing briefly at the entrance to the balcony. When he looks back at me, his eyes are a shade darker. “I don’t like hearing that, Ivy. I don’t like it at all.”
“You have no choice but to accept it.” I attempt to walk past him, but he stands in my way. And then, without warning, one of his hands is on the back of my head, pulling me to him, and the other is on my butt.
“What the hell, Milton.” I grip the hand on my butt and yank it off, followed by the one on the back of my head. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
“I’m sorry.” He takes a few steps back. “I don’t know what got into me. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please forget it.”
“Don’t do it again.” I grit my teeth. “Seriously, never touch me like that again. Not unless you want to end up like Oliver Banes.”
I’m taking it too far, but the shock on Milton’s face is satisfying.
“Hey, I said I’m sorry. No need to get nasty.” He wipes a sheen of sweat from his brow and raises his hands, palms facing me. Regret wrinkles his features. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
I sigh. “Fine, let’s forget about it. See you around.” I shove past him. Instead of returning to the movie room, where I hear the sound of a new movie playing, I return to my room. I’ve had enough drama for the evening.
I lie on my bed in the dark, plagued by thoughts of the news report and Judson’s words to me. Part of me believes he’s guilty, but something else holds me back. Either way, after a long, sleepless night, I wake up to a decision that hurts my heart. I have to cut off my correspondence with him. If he really murdered that guy, I don’t think I can handle it.
This time I use a brand new sheet of paper.
Dear Judson,
I’m sorry, I won’t be writing you anymore. Don’t ask me to explain. Good luck with everything and take care. Please do not respond.
A week goes by with me trying to get on with my life, trying to forget him. And then he ignores my request and writes back anyway. The letter he sends this time is not a brief note.
I was shattered to read the letter you sent me. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our conversations in the last weeks. My life is broken, but you have given me something to look forward to. I know I have to respect your decision. I do wish you would reconsider, but I understand why you feel the need to pull away. I’m behind bars. It’s normal for you to think of me as dangerous. I need to say one thing, however: many people behind bars are no more dangerous than some of the people you see walking the streets every day. I’d like to tell you I’m a good person, but I’m not one to brag. That said, I do know you are a good person. That’s why you reached out to me in the first place. You didn’t know me, and yet you wanted to make sure I was okay.
Our conversations started because of Jennifer. I loved her, but the truth is, it was over long before you found those letters. You helped me deal with her departure. Life doesn’t always give us what we want, I guess.
This might sound weird, but in a way I’m glad it didn’t work out with Jennifer. At the same time I’m grateful to her. She led me to you. If it weren’t for her leaving behind my letters, you and I would never have entered each other’s lives. I feel as though I’ve known you forever, and I can’t deny the connection between us. I know you feel it as much as I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have corresponded with me for as long as you have.
While other people call me a monster, you gave me the benefit of the doubt. My wish is that you will continue doing that. Write back, Ivy. Or better yet, come and visit me. I know it’s too much to ask, given the circumstances, but it might help for you to come and see for yourself that I’m not the monster everyone thinks I am.
I don’t believe in coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Why don’t you stick around to find out why we ended up in each other’s paths?
Please write back.
By the time I’m done reading, the letter is stained with my tears.
After a week of reading and rereading Judson’s first real letter to me, feeling things I still don’t know I have the right to feel, I write back. I decide to stick around, to give him the benefit of the doubt, as he’s asked. Not because I think it’s the right thing to do, but because some unseen powerful force inside me is driving me to do it. In a weird, twisted way, my connection to him feels like life support. It’s hard to breathe when I think about cutting off that support. He’s a stranger to me in my head, but so familiar to my heart. Everyone says he’s a monster, but my heart won’t let me believe it. I want to resist his pull, but the harder I try, the quicker I fall into his web.
He’s right: there has to be a reason why we ended up in each other’s paths. Nothing else can explain this insanity. I hate
myself for what I’m doing, but it seems I’m no longer in control of my actions. My heart holds the key to my sanity.
In the coming days and weeks, our letters bounce back and forth while I navigate my way through university life and my friendship with Judson. We never talk about his trial. Our communication starts off supportive, with him telling me about his lonely life behind bars, and me telling him about the university and life outside.
Even though he ignores questions about his background and family, from his letters I manage to glean information that at least points to his character. He’s an enthusiastic art collector who loves to paint in his free time. He also runs every morning no matter the weather, and enjoys classical music. He didn’t lecture for the money, he tells me, but rather for the pure joy of it.
The one hint at his background I do get is that he isn’t actually French, despite his French surname. He began learning the language as a child and is now fluent in it.
Before I know it, our conversations turn in a different direction. Our letters return to brief notes again—his flirty, with an erotic undertone that leaves me breathless. Our correspondence slowly but surely develops into a bizarre but intense long-distance romance that sucks me in without my explicit consent.
His words echo the ones he wrote to Jennifer, but these are meant for me, and they’re beyond intoxicating. When he talks about being together one day, I humor him, but it’s mostly out of pity since I doubt he’ll ever be free.
Still, I find myself dreaming about him. I allow him to spend most nights with me in my bed, inside my mind. He’s far away but feels oh so near. He fills my dreams and my reality. He could be dangerous, but he’s my comfort zone. He could be poisonous, but he’s my elixir.
When I’m thinking straight, I struggle with wanting to let him go. But the need to keep him is so much stronger. So many times I find myself aching to see him in person, to look into his eyes. If he can have such a hold over me from afar, am I brave enough to withstand what might happen in person?
10
I wake with a rock planted in the center of my stomach. I can’t seem to get enough air, even as I fill my lungs with deep breaths. Nothing can fill me. Not air. Not water. Not food. Only Judson’s words.
I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks, and it’s driving me nuts. We’ve gone from exchanging letters frequently to radio silence. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, but without his letters, a part of me feels cut off, and I can’t seem to find a replacement for it. Is it over between us? Then again, I don’t really know what we had in the first place. Maybe he has realized, unlike me, that we have no future together. With him behind bars, possibly for life, being together and having a normal relationship feels like an unreachable dream.
My mind keeps going back to our last letters. Did I say something wrong? Is he upset that after a month of correspondence, I’m still refusing to visit him? He has no idea how much I want to see him. At the same time, there are parts of me that are frightened of him. They say he’s a monster. What if he really is? What if he’s dangerous to me? What if someone sees me visiting him and my secret is exposed? What will people think of me then? Am I ready to risk my reputation for him? So many questions with no answers.
With a groan, I pull myself up in bed and blink away the tears from my eyes. I climb down to my desk.
It’s November eighth, and Chelsea is in Destin for an academic conference, which leaves me alone with my loneliness. Milton invited me to a party tonight, but I’ve never gone to a party in Oaklow without Chelsea by my side. She has been my shield in a way I cannot explain—she makes me feel less vulnerable than I am.
I turn on the computer and do a quick search on Judson. Has there been a change to his circumstances? Has he been transferred to another prison, in a different town? The articles on him are brutal, so full of hate. Reading them is the last thing I want to do. But I have no choice. They might hold the information I need.
From the look of things, nothing has changed, nothing new reported. Left with nothing but stomach cramps, I rise from the chair and head to the fridge. I pull out the box with the pink birthday cupcakes Chelsea left me. I doubt they’ll make me feel better, but I settle down on the couch with them on my lap anyway.
The moment I take a bite into one, my phone beeps. A text from Chelsea.
Happy birthday, girl. Try to have a blast today. Do something crazy. A little fun doesn’t hurt. See you tomorrow.
Before I finish reading the text, the phone rings. It’s my mother. As usual, my stomach twists when her photo pops up on my screen. I want to ignore it, but maybe she really wants to wish me a happy birthday. That would be a first. She has forgotten so many times in the past, even though I remembered every one of her birthdays. I need distraction, so I take the call.
“Mom? Hi.” The last time we spoke was three weeks ago, and as usual, that call ended in a fight.
“Don’t hang up,” she begs. “Please, I need to talk to you.”
“Okay, I won’t.” I’m still holding out hope that her next words will be “Happy birthday.”
“Something amazing happened.” She pauses, and I can hear her breathing heavily on the other end. “Great news. I got a call from Maureen Adams, the producer of an upcoming romantic comedy series. They want you in it. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for, baby.”
My stomach plummets and fresh tears well up in my eyes. I grab my midsection to hold down the bile. “In case you still haven’t noticed”—I put the cupcakes on the coffee table and lean my forehead on my knees—”I’m no longer interested in modeling. Acting doesn’t appeal to me either.”
“Ivy, baby, listen.” She pauses. “You have no idea how amazing this opportunity is. Once you go into movies, your career will soar.”
I massage my temples. “I don’t care. I’m not interested in any of it. I’m out, remember?”
“Then do it for me.”
“I’ve done enough for you. I’m sorry, I have to go. I have birthday cupcakes to eat.” My face breaks into a bitter smile. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
The silence, broken only by the sound of her heavy breathing, stretches between us.
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to hang up now, but for the last time, I’m not interested in making your dreams come true. Let me live my life.”
I hang up before she responds. Fighting back tears, I eat up the cupcakes. Surprisingly, they do make me feel a tiny bit better. Left with nothing else to occupy me, I lie back on the couch with a romance novel. An escape is what I need. Later I might spend a few hours at the beach.
At eleven o’clock there’s a knock on the door, soft but still audible. I’m confused as I go to open it. I’m not expecting any visitors.
Just like when Milton left me the flowers, I don’t find anyone at the door. On the doorstep is a flat square box wrapped in gold and silver wrapping paper, with a silver silk ribbon tied around it.
Confused, I lift it into my hands and take it inside. I open it so fast, the pretty paper is in shreds when I’m done. The unwrapped box is also silver. I lift the lid and gasp.
Fragile silk and satin spills over my fingers as I pull out the gift. A matching set of black-and-white lingerie—panties and a bra—framed by soft, pretty ruffles.
There’s a note, but I’m a little afraid to read it. I don’t know how I know, but somehow I do: it’s from Judson.
I bite my bottom lip as I open the small envelope.
It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ll always remember the day you were gifted to this world. I hope you like my little gift to you. Bon anniversaire.
J.D.
At first I wonder how he knows today is my birthday, and then I remember I had mentioned it in one of our letters. Here I was thinking he had changed his mind about us, and he sends me a birthday gift. One that freaks me out and excites me all at once. The earlier tension of the morning melts away, leaving my heart lighter.
I
remain on the couch for almost an hour, wondering what I should do. Judson has reopened our line of communication and seems to have taken our relationship to another level. Am I prepared for this level of intimacy? The flirty letters were one thing. This makes it so much more real.
My phone rings again. I expect it to be my mom, calling to apologize. I’m on too much of a high to hold a grudge right now, so I pick up without looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
“Ma chérie?” The voice hits me like a thunderbolt. I grip the phone tighter.
“Prof—Professor Devereux?” My voice is a soft whisper on my tongue. “Is that you? Where are you calling from?”
He chuckles. “Where else? Anyway, I thought we were on a first-name basis.” His voice turns my knees to water. Good thing I’m sitting. “I can’t talk for long. Did you receive my gift?”
I’m silent for a heartbeat as conflicting emotions course through my body. My mind is numb. I wanted this. I wanted him, longed for him to contact me, dreamed of hearing his voice so many times. Now everything is happening so fast. My heart gallops like a wild horse inside my chest.
“Yes. Judson.” My fragile voice shakes as the words leave my lips.
“Good. I want you to wear it tonight and think of me. Will you do that?” He speaks with strength and authority. The intensity in his tone sends a shiver through me.
I take a deep breath and bite my bottom lip. His voice. Oh my God. I had expected it to be sexy. But the real thing is beyond my wildest dreams. My senses reel, short-circuited by his raspy baritone.
Realizing that he can’t see me nodding, I reply, “Yes.” From his end, I hear a distant bell and the sound of metal against metal. He’s still in locked up. What did I expect? “How did you get my number? How did you deliver the—?”