by Ginger Scott
* * *
Please don’t think this is an excuse. I’m trying to do the right thing. Go do amazing things.
Yours,
Tristan
* * *
I don’t read what I wrote. I walk to the desk and hand the pencil over along with my letter and Riley’s envelope.
“Can this be sent to the return address?” I ask.
The guard nods and takes my page, setting it on a stack of dozens of others just like it. The odds of it actually making it to Riley aren’t high, but I can’t think that way. If I do that, then I’ll still wake up hoping to see her. I won’t be strong enough to send that letter again.
A week has passed since I basically broke up with a girl—who was never officially my girlfriend—with a letter written in and mailed from a juvenile detention center. As far as boyfriends go, Riley should count her blessings that we were never “official.”
That’s the term Lauren uses anyway. She’s thrown it around a few times in her recent visits. She told me she said it to Riley when she was upset about my letter. That’s how she made her feel better, by labeling what we had as no big deal.
The only problem was it was a big deal. It was to me, and I know it was to Riley. I could feel it when I was with her.
I’m waiting in the visitor’s lounge for Lauren now, and I’ve practiced my speech to her all night. She needs to quit adding fuel to things. She’s Riley’s friend and she’s like family to me, and I don’t know how she’s going to do it, but she needs to keep that shit separate.
I watch her pass through security, and the second she’s buzzed in I stand to give her a hug. She turned eighteen a week ago, and besides allowing her to visit me without supervision, it’s made her bossy as fuck.
“Thanks for coming,” I say during our embrace. I run through my talking points mentally, and I’m ready to dive into them when we sit down, only Lauren never gives me the chance.
“Here,” she says, sliding an opened letter across the table to me, her palm slapping it down forcefully. “And before you bitch about it, it’s open because Mr. Security Man out there had to search the envelope.”
What the actual fuck?
She lifts her palm and the handwriting gives everything away. It’s Riley’s.
“Okay, I did read it. But she told me to. She wanted to make sure it said everything you needed to hear. I don’t know why she won’t just bring her ass in here with me, but she insisted I play postal worker, so here you go!”
She pushes the pages toward me and they separate. Riley’s writing is jagged, her letters tall and scribbled. She was angry when she wrote this, and I feel like a dick.
“Lauren, this wasn’t the point,” I say, gathering the pages and handing the letter back.
She tucks her arms under one another and stands from the table, shaking her head.
“Lauren, I can’t read this,” I say.
“Oh, yes you can,” she shoots back.
I chuckle with frustration and run my hand over my buzzed hair.
“I am doing the right thing,” I say, holding the letter in one hand and extending an open palm with the other. “Lauren, please tell me you see this.”
She sighs, and I look up at her, helpless and with poison in my hand.
“You don’t get to quit being her friend just because you’re trying to turn over a new leaf, if that’s even how that stupid saying goes. What I mean is she was your friend, too. Even though you loved her, and ah…” She holds up a hand to stop me when I try to argue that point. I give up because she knows me well. “You did love her. You loved her as a friend first, though. You don’t get to take that away. No takebacks. Foul! No, wait…technical!”
She holds her hands up in the air and spreads her fingers, her nails clicking as they fan out.
“Is that some modeling pose or something?” I squint at her.
She smacks my leg and the guard steps closer so she backs up.
“Sorry,” she says to him, then turns her eyes to me. “Not sorry.”
I laugh at this entire exchange, and before she leaves, I take a deep breath and pull the letter closer again. I’m going to need to respond to this, and if she won’t come see me, I’m going to have to write.
“I don’t have her address. I gave it to the guard,” I say, and Lauren pulls a folded paper from her back pocket. I open what looks like a coffeeshop receipt and study the address written on the back. It’s familiar, and I know it’s hers.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” she answers, moving her hand into her purse and digging for her keys. “I gotta go.”
She doesn’t really, but she’s forcing me to be alone with Riley’s words. I stand and give her a hug then do as she wishes. I head straight to the library, to my favorite corner table covered in heavy books with very few pictures, and I begin to read.
* * *
Tristan,
No. That’s really all I should say, but it feels like a waste not to write more. So I will. If I want to write you letters, then I’m going to do it. If you let them pile up in your cell, then that’s on you. I’m just going to keep on writing. I like writing you. It’s good for me. It helps me work through shit. You’re my person, and I still need you to be, so…no.
* * *
Her letter goes on for two pages saying mostly the same thing over and over, and by the end of it, I’m laughing. She’s so stubborn, but the little things she lets out in-between ranting at me give me this small picture of what I’m missing. She mentioned failing a test, which I can’t imagine her doing. I can’t picture her failing anything—ever. She also talks about her dad liking another driver. She said they radio each other on the road. I wish I had a radio. I don’t, though. I have an endless supply of paper and baby pencils like the ones they give away at the lottery counter so people can pick their favorite numbers.
I head toward the guard desk, and before I can ask, he slides me a few pages and a pencil.
“Thanks,” I say, smirking.
I get back to my desk and begin immediately.
* * *
Okay, Riley. I’ll write to you. We’ll be pen pals. It sounds great.
* * *
I stop and read the words and shake my head, turning my pencil over only to be screwed by the lack of an eraser. I draw a circle around the entire first line and then attach an arrow pointing directly below.
* * *
That is not how I wanted to start, but they don’t let us have erasers in here. In case you’re wondering, erasers can be turned into lethal weapons.
No, they can’t. These pencils are stupid.
* * *
I laugh lightly, amusing myself. It will amuse her. I guess I’m doing this—responding. We’re going to write. I’ll do this for as long as she wants, until her letters stop. I ask her about her test that she failed, and I ask her about playing for Lauren’s mom. Then I tell her a few things about when I was little, and Lauren’s mom coached our Tiny Tykes team out on the courts. She did it for the same reason she’s coaching now—there was nobody left to take it on.
I mail it and endure watching the guard read it before he puts it in the stack. It’s a different guy from the one yesterday, so I make a mental note to learn their schedules. I like the guy who doesn’t read my personal shit. This guy takes his job too seriously.
Riley’s response comes faster this time. Her letter is happier, too, which I figured it would be since she got her way. She didn’t answer me about failing her test, and she doesn’t really have to. I think the fact that she’s gone through so much and only managed to slip on one test is a miracle.
She loved my stories about Lauren’s mom and asked for more things like, about me when I was young. It’s hard to think of things that don’t involve Dub at first, but once I scratch at the deep places in my memory, they start to flow more easily. I write to her about my dad, about the good things I remember of him, and how he used to speak Spanish around the house. I knew m
ore of it when I was little, but I didn’t practice a lot, because my mom didn’t speak it. My dad never wanted her to feel left out, which was his way of loving her. I was given a strange view on love as a child. Favors and consideration, occasional passion, but no real affection except from my mom, and not until she was clean and sober.
For a month, our letters go on like this, sharing those personal details that chaos never gave us time for in person. A few times, she mentions that her dad is home, and I wonder why she doesn’t visit, but I don’t question it either. I like what we have going now, the distance that mail keeps between us. It’s safe for her, even if I’m becoming dependent on her words.
Every new detail she shares pushes me in love with her a little more, but I also expect every letter I get to be the last. A month becomes months, and weeks start to pass between notes, until finally they stop for good.
I can live with it, with the way we just faded out. I can live with it because it eased her into everything that comes next for her. I can’t seem to stop writing, though, and when I quit having a place to send my words, I started to just save them up. Writing her inspired me to write my story, every single ugly word. This is different from the things I told the FBI. I write down the emotions, and how easy it was to grow up and believe this culture was right when it’s all I’d been taught.
By the time I’m a week away from graduating the system—the term they use here—I’ve written enough for a book. I might just share it with the world someday, when people are ready to read it. I won’t share Riley’s letters, though. Those—they’re just for me.
Chapter Twenty
Sophomore Year of College
Riley
* * *
It’s surreal being back home, even though I’ve only been in Indiana for a bit over a year. I spent so little time in Miller, but my memories here are so strong. The things that happened here, my life here—it was loud. Short but loud, violent and sweet.
My dad said he could take care of all of this without me having to come back, but I wanted to be here. I think I needed to be. Some things just aren’t finished.
My dad’s moved up with the trucking company, and they offered him a supervisor’s role. It’s what he’s wanted, and it’s based in Indiana, which means that my partial scholarship will now cover the cost of in-state tuition as soon as we can get residency.
It also means that my dad gets to move.
I remember leaving our first house and feeling sad about letting go of things that I wasn’t going to get to see again. I didn’t think I’d feel that here, because the people I really care about have moved on—Lauren’s moved down state for college, and her brother has his own busy life. Jaden’s just a kid, and he’s got a long road of therapy ahead of him, coming to terms with what he did in self-defense and the trouble his father got into for having an unsecured gun in the home. Tristan and Paul’s moms have both started a foundation through the church to fight gang violence that takes up most of their time.
The only person I really care to see again hasn’t been a part of this place in a long time, but he’ll be here today. That’s why I had to come.
“He got home yesterday, right?” My dad grunts his question as he carries the box of random kitchen things to my truck. I help him heave it onto the back and then get in to slide it against the back of the bed with my feet.
“He did. He talked to Lauren, and that’s what she told me,” I say, taking another box from him while I’m up here. I lift it easily, and it makes my dad chuckle.
“You’re getting so strong,” he says, lifting the collar of his T-shirt up to his face to wipe away sweat.
“Six days a week of gym time and practice will do that,” I say.
The first month of college conditioning almost killed me. I thought I was in shape, but I had no idea. A complication from a bone fracture in my ribs that nobody saw made things worse, and I missed half of my freshman year of ball having to let it reset and heal. That’s when I quit writing to Tristan. I didn’t want him to know, and I didn’t know how not to talk about it or answer his questions about the team.
I didn’t want to lie. And he didn’t need the guilt.
I jump down from the truck bed and sit in the rolling chair in the driveway, kicking back and scooting to the edge of the concrete.
“Promise me you’ll never get rid of this chair,” I say, and my dad glances over his shoulder to see what I’m talking about.
“You should just take that back to school with you,” he says, and the second he turns I celebrate with a fist pump and start to push the chair off to the side.
The sound of dribbling is faint when I first hear it, so I don’t walk down the driveway right away, but as it grows louder—comes closer—I give in and walk toward the street to see who’s come out to play.
It stops my breath when I see him at first. His hair is short, and mine is long again. I laugh faintly at the observation but stop when our eyes meet. He palms the ball and pauses his steps. He knew I was going to be here. Lauren told him as much as she told me. I wanted to see him, but I also wanted to prepare myself for it. I guess I never really could have, though.
His lip ticks up on one side, and he drops the ball again, dribbling with his walk until he’s in my driveway.
“Why do I always run into you when you’re moving heavy shit,” he says, leaning his head toward the piles of boxes and towering objects in the back of my truck.
His eyes crinkle with his smile, and his face has grown older. It’s matured, the lines more defined and everything about him stronger, wider and…different.
“Short hair looks good on you,” I say, glancing up at his head. It’s a crew cut, basically.
He runs his hand over the top of his head and laughs on one side of his mouth as his eyes look up.
“Yeah, courtesy of the Miller County Correctional System,” he jokes.
I nod.
“Yeah, I figured,” I say.
Both of our eyes move, taking in small snapshots of the people we are now. My throat feels dry, and his neck moves with a swallow. This is weird for both of us.
“I was gonna go shoot for a while. I know you don’t play with rec players, but I was thinking…” His brows lift and his smile slants as I laugh at his joke.
“Sure, I could slum it for a little while,” I say. He winces and makes an Oooo sound.
My dad steps out of the garage and dumps another box on top of the growing stack. My stomach beats with my pulse, just like it did two years ago. The nerves never go away I guess.
“Hey, Dad?” I get his attention, and he does a bit of a doubletake when it registered with him that Tristan is here.
“I’m gonna go shoot for a while…that okay?” My father’s eyes never make it to mine; they stay with Tristan. It’s not the suspicious and protective face I used to see though. It’s softer, maybe sympathetic. His mouth shifts into a slight grin.
“Sure, I’m gonna grab some lunch for us. I’ll call you when I get back. Tristan, want anything?” My dad’s offer pulls a small breath of surprise from Tristan.
“No thanks, sir. I have an interview in a few hours,” he says, and I tilt my head in a proud surprise. He glances at me and flashes a tight-lipped smile.
“Job?” my dad asks.
“Scholarship. Just for County, but it’s something,” Tristan says, rolling his shoulders.
My dad doesn’t belittle it. It’s an achievement, and a huge step.
“Well good luck then…proud of you,” my dad says, smiling genuinely and heading back inside.
Tristan remains in his spot for a few long seconds, his eyes on the place where my father just stood. He soaks in the praise, and I wait for him to.
“Ready?” he finally says, bringing his eyes back to me.
He’s so handsome, and I wonder how a boy like him was born in a place so ugly. I admire how he survived.
“Yeah,” I smile, falling in step beside him as we move toward the courts.
&
nbsp; Our feet sync up, and Tristan tries to stutter step a few times to get us off, which makes me laugh. I retaliate by reaching in and popping the ball from under his arm, but I dribble a few paces out before he takes it back. My arm glides against his, the contact normal but so obvious when it happens. I blush from it, and Tristan averts his eyes. We’re both nervous.
I’ve had two boyfriends since him. Both of them recent, at Ball State. They were…boring. They were necessary, and they were kind and good guys. My heart never skipped though. I never rushed to see them or made up excuses to be near them. When we were together, it was nice. When we weren’t, it was fine.
I only slept with one of them. I cried after, and not because he was cruel or I felt pushed into anything. I cried because it wasn’t Tristan. I’d given this first to someone else, and it didn’t measure up.
The courts are empty when we step through the gate. The bleachers have been painted a bright green, and the lines on the ground are white and clean.
“My mom had the church take over this space. They put a lot of work into it, I guess,” he says, glancing around.
“It looks nice,” I say, noting the new chains on the hoops and the updated backboards. I do my best to stop the quake in my chest, and I can tell being here hits Tristan as hard as it does me. I see it in the way his jaw flexes and his eyes flinch. I relive the gunshots too.
“What do you say you show me some of those new college moves you’ve learned,” he says, looking at me sideways.
I smirk. I’m about a million times better than I was the last time we played, but I won’t hold back on him. He’s the person I actually wanted to show off to most.
“You take it out first,” I say, smacking the ball from his hands and dribbling to the free-throw line.
Tristan jogs after me, his legs long and his muscles filling the fit of his black joggers more than they used to. He’s wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt, and he tugs it up over his neck and tosses it to the side. That was a distraction, and it works because I check the ball and he drives past me easily, laughing when the ball goes in.