If I Could Do It Again

by Ashley Stoyanoff

  They place me at table twenty-eight, which is at the very back of the room, right beside the inmate washrooms. I try to keep myself busy while I wait for Joshua, going to the vending machines, getting us drinks and his Swedish Fish. Then making my way back up to the guard’s desk, and getting a deck of cards before finally taking a seat.

  And then, I fidget.

  And I stress.

  And I watch the door.

  The seconds tick by, turning into minutes, and my belly twists and turns, but when that door finally opens and my eyes meet his, I swear to God, all of my anxiety just … disappears.

  He has a huge smile splitting his lips and he’s staring at me as though I’m the only person in the room. It’s his smile that gets me to my feet, and I’m standing at the side of our table by the time he reaches me.

  “Shit, baby, you look fucking amazing,” he says. “Missed you so fucking much.”

  And then he pulls me into his arms and his lips find mine and I instantly feel at home.

  23

  You Want Me to Tattoo That Where?

  It’s been fifteen minutes and Joshua hasn’t stopped staring at me.

  He watched me as I sat down across from him, and his eyes followed me as I went back up to the vending machines. They were stuck on me when I stopped at the microwave, heating up a bacon cheeseburger for him, and they never left me as I brought it back to the table, opening up the ketchup and smothering it on his food. They stayed on me while he devoured his meal, and he was still staring when I collected all the garbage and threw it out.

  Now I’m sitting across the table from him, leaning forward with my forearms pressed against the plastic top. His thumbs are stuck within my grip, his fingers wrapped around my hands, and his eyes, well, his eyes are still glued to me.

  “Baby, you’ve got to stop staring so hard,” I mumble, my eyes dropping down to the table. “It’s making me a little … uncomfortable.”

  “Can’t help it,” he says, releasing one of my hands and reaching over, tapping my chin with a finger, bringing my gaze back to his. “You look fucking amazing. How much weight did you lose?”

  “Thirty-four pounds,” I say, smiling softly.

  He smiles back at me and slips his hand back in mine. “Baby girl, I’m so proud of you. All that hard work paid off. Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been doing so good?”

  “Because,” I swallow, because it’s still hard for me to talk about my weight, “I wanted to surprise you, then I started to worry I was losing too much and that my ass was getting—”

  “You look fucking fantastic,” he says matter-of-factly, cutting me off. “It’s gotten bigger, rounder—” He stalls, his eyes falling to my hips. “It’s sitting up nice and high now, baby, and when you walk … shit, it fucking shakes perfectly. Your face has thinned out, your arms, throughout your whole body. I mean, wow. You look sexy as fuck.”

  Feeling my face heat, I quickly say, “Thank you for the workouts. I guess they really helped.”

  “I’m so proud of you for sticking with it, baby,” he says, and he means it. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice.

  “Thank you.”

  He grins at me, and damn I love that grin. It makes my heart ache in a wonderful kind of way. I smile back. I can’t help it. I never thought having the man I love appreciate all the effort that goes into losing the weight would feel so good.

  But it does.

  It feels fan-freakin’-tastic.

  “So,” he says, but then pauses, taking a breath. “Tell me, how did the move go?”

  “You called them, didn’t you?” I don’t know why I ask the question, but it’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  He nods, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Yep, but I’d like you to tell me about it.”

  “Well,” I start, a small, fake laugh falling out, as I try to find the words that might smooth everything over. “I think it went pretty well overall. Each of them only called me a bitch once throughout the entire day, so I think that might be considered a success.”

  Fortunately, he finds this amusing.

  “I heard,” Joshua says with a laugh, but when he continues, his voice is serious. “I also heard you got all teary-eyed and opened your bedroom door for Ali wearing only a fucking towel.”

  His tone makes me cringe and I try to pull my hands away, but he holds them fast. “I assumed it was Becca.”

  “That shit better not happen again,” he says firmly. “You’re mine. The only man that gets to see you naked is me. We on the same page?”

  “I wasn’t naked.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Are we on the same page?”

  I nod. There’s no point in arguing. Honestly, if I hadn’t been so damn stressed, I probably would have shut the door in Ali’s face as soon as I saw him.

  I guess my nod isn’t enough, because Joshua tightens his grip on my hands and says, “Give me the words.”

  I hesitate. I want to say something snarky, but with the way he’s looking at me, his expression serious and a little stormy, instinct tells me not to. “We’re on the same page.”

  He grins, loosening up on my hands so I can pull them free. I take them back quickly, picking up my soda and taking a sip.

  “I’m really glad you made the move, baby. So fucking glad you believe in us enough to be here, living close to me.”

  I set down my soda, my smile fading, but my happiness soars. “Me, too, Joshua. I’m really fucking glad I’m here.”

  ****

  Three hours later, we’re playing cards, and Joshua is abnormally quiet, looking lost in thought. I lay down yet another rummy, and he, as always, picks up the card and places it back in my hand, gesturing for me to try again.

  At least he’s focused on the cards.

  “You know,” I say, pursing my lips, “we don’t keep score. It doesn’t really matter if I make mistakes.”

  “I know,” he says. “But I like the look on your face whenever you win a hand. It’s so fucking cute.”

  I can’t help but grin at that. This man … he makes me feel so special, so cherished. “Okay, baby.”

  He hums. “Love that smile, too. And the guys are right, you look like a cute little chipmunk when you show your real smile.”

  I laugh. It’s an awkward, loud laugh. “Thank you, I think.”

  Joshua smiles, but he doesn’t say anything more, focusing back on his hand. He picks up a card, glances at it, and then discards it, his smile fading.

  I watch him for a moment, a small knot forming in my stomach as I reach for a card, picking it up and stuffing it into my hand, discarding another. His brow furrows, small frown lines forming between his eyes.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  He looks up at me, shooting another quick smile that doesn’t last nearly long enough. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. You’re just … quiet.”

  “I was just thinking that maybe we could come to a compromise on something.” He shrugs. “Just trying to figure out how to propose it, is all.”

  “Compromise on what?” I ask, squirming in my chair, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

  “I know you said you really didn’t like the idea of a ‘property of’ vest,” he says, his gaze focused on his cards. “So I’ve got an idea that I think is even better, and it’d mean the world to me.”

  His words send a tingle spreading throughout my belly, and I try—unsuccessfully—to quash it. I’ve never really liked the whole property term. I’m not a feminist by any means, but really, being called property is just kind of … insulting. But when I hear Joshua use it toward me, it makes me feel giddy.

  It’s confusing.

  It’s messed up.

  “Um, okay …”

  He tosses his cards down, leaning back in his chair. “I’d like you to get a ‘property of’ tattoo right on the side of your ass.”

  A tattoo?

  Really?

  I do
n’t know what to say.

  He flexes his hands on his knees as though he’s anxious for my answer, but once again, I’m sitting here, speechless, watching him as he watches me right back.

  “It would mean the world to me,” he says after a beat, softening his voice.

  I try to ignore the fresh wave of delightful little tingles his words cause in my belly, and really think about what he’s asked, but I can’t. Not even a little. My body is alive with chills and tingles.

  Oh, God, what’s wrong with me?

  This should not be turning me on and twisting me up.

  It should not.

  My heart is hammering, and when I speak, my voice is breathless. “You want me to tattoo that where?”

  He smirks at me. He freakin’ smirks!

  Damn him, he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

  “Baby, don’t you think a tattoo right on the side of your hip, running across your ass cheek would be fucking hot?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You could do it just like a vest, the ‘property’ would be arched, ‘of’ in the center, then below that would be my initials. It would look so sexy on you and I figured, since it’ll be covered all the time, you might like it a bit more than the vest.”

  I look at him in confusion, because, well, how is this a compromise? “I’m not quite sure how permanent ink is a compromise from a removable vest.”

  “Well, it’s not,” he says, still smirking at me. “Not really, but you know we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, right?”

  Ugh, I want to kiss that knowing smirk right off his lips. I hate the stupid rules. Hate that I can’t kiss him, hug him, or have any other contact than simple handholding.

  It sucks.

  It sucks so freakin’ hard.

  Since I can’t kiss him, I answer him honestly. “I hope so.”

  “This means more to me than a ring,” he murmurs, his eyes tender. “I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you and this tattoo is saying that this, what we have here, is forever. You mean the world to me, so of course if you got ‘property of’ with my initials, showing that you’re in this for the rest of our lives, it would mean the world to me, too.”

  “Whoa, ease up on the sales pitch, baby,” I laughingly tell him, because I’m not sure how to react to this.

  Silence.

  The tenderness leaks away from Joshua’s eyes and his expression blanks, not betraying any emotion.

  “It’s not a sales pitch, Victoria,” he says eventually, sounding truly agitated. He leans forward, reaching for my hands, twining his fingers through mine. “This is a tattoo I’ve always wanted my wife to get. I’ve never had a wife, and I know you’re going to be it. Just think about it, okay? There’s no pressure whatsoever. I don’t ever want you to feel pressured. I just want you to think about it.”

  “You want me to be your wife?” I ask disbelievingly. I know he’s said it before, but still, it’s hard to believe.

  “Yeah, baby, I do,” he says. “Every time I look in your eyes, I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re my everything, my world.”

  “Five minutes.” The voice startles me so much that I jump, nearly falling off my chair as I turn toward it, spotting a CO chuckling at my reaction. “Sorry to scare you, ma’am.”

  I nod to him, my face flushing hot as he walks away. I groan and hide my face in my hands, but after a moment, both Joshua and I burst out laughing about it.

  I watch him, loving the deep timbre of his laugh and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and for the life of me, at this moment I can’t remember why I’d been so scared to see him again.

  “Why do you always leave these earth shattering conversations to the last few minutes?” I ask as I catch my breath. “You never give me the chance to talk it out.”

  He grins. “Baby, this isn’t earth shattering. It’s just a tattoo.”

  “It’s a tattoo that means the world to you,” I point out. “That makes it kind of earth shattering.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “We’ve only got a couple minutes left, so why don’t we just enjoy each other real quick, and I’ll give you a call when you leave. We can talk about it as much as you need.”

  I raise a questioning eyebrow. “Promise?”

  “I promise,” he says, studying me intently. “I always want to know what you’re thinking and how you’re feeling. I swear to you, baby girl, your thoughts really matter to me.”

  Emotion, happiness and love and something else that I can’t quite decipher, clogs up my throat. I look at him, nodding my head, and mouthing the word, “Okay.”

  24

  Tattoos, Restrooms, and Duffle Bags

  Tattoos on the ass take forever to heal.

  I’m standing in my bedroom, the banded bottom of my black mini cold shoulder dress pulled up over my hips, staring at the old English lettering stretching across my right ass cheek. It’s been sixteen days since I got the new ink, and it’s still peeling.

  It looks good. Clean lines. Bold lettering. My favorite part though, the small watercolor butterfly hanging off the ‘L’. Each time I look at it, my heart aches in a wonderfully delicious sort of way. I never thought a tattoo could make me feel this … special.

  Grabbing my moisturizer, I pump out a generous glob, and massage it into my skin, before pulling my dress back down. I fluff up my hair, and then grab my eyeliner, touching up my waterline, when the door flings open and Becca walks in. I glance that way, taking in her cautious expression as she flops down on my bed. “I thought you were seeing Joshua today.”

  “I am.”

  “They’re not going to let you in wearing that,” she says, frowning. “It’s showing shoulder.”

  “I’m not going to the prison.” I hesitate. “I’m going to the diner.”

  She blinks at me. “For real?”

  “Yup.”

  She blinks again. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  She rolls her eyes, her expression showing that she thinks I’m kidding, before something clicks and her eyes widen. “Shit, you’re serious,” she says. “Babe, are you ready for this?”

  I shrug. “If he wasn’t in prison, it would have happened months ago.”

  “Yeah, but he could get in serious shit,” she counters.

  That he could.

  Becca stares at me waiting for some kind of response as I try to get my thoughts together and figure out what to tell her. “It’s a risk he’s willing to take.”

  “I bet he is,” she says seriously. “But is it one you’re willing to take?”

  Her knowing tone does something to my insides that I don’t like. I bristle. I want to tell her that I’m a risk taker, that all I’ve been doing since I met him is take risk after risk, but I know that’s just my insecurities pushing their way out. So I just shrug, because the truth is, I’m really not sure that I am willing to take the risk.

  Becca eyes me for a moment, looking at me as though she’s debating whether or not to push the topic, but thankfully she doesn’t. “So, I was thinking I’d stay another week or two. Just to make sure you’re okay here.”

  “Really?” I ask, my eyes widening. “Wait. What about work? Can you afford to take that much time off?”

  “It’s all good,” she says, waving off my questions. “I’ve got like four more weeks of vacation banked up.”

  I grin, and so does she.

  Damn, I love my best friend.

  ****

  Twenty-nine minutes later, I’m staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror, trying and failing to convince myself that I can do this.

  Resting my head on the steering wheel, I resist the urge to pound my head against it. I’m sitting in the parking lot outside the small family-owned diner that Joshua works at. He’s been talking about me meeting him here for days now. He said that his boss leaves daily at two o’clock in the afternoon to go to the bank, and that he’s always gone for a least an hour. It�
�s been the same routine every single day since he started.

  He’s confident that we won’t get caught.

  Me, on the other hand, I’m not so sure.

  And yet, here I am, sitting in the parking lot. It’s six minutes after two, and his boss’s car is gone. My truck is off, and I’m trying to build up the nerve to actually get out.

  I take a deep breath, and then another, before I finally open the door and get out. Shutting the door, I look across the parking lot. The restaurant is busy, only a handful of spots left.

  “This is a bad idea,” I whisper as I start toward the door, slowly placing one foot in front of the other.

  “This is a fucking great idea,” a deep voice rumbles from beside me. I jump, spinning around as Joshua steps away from the dumpster and toward me. He closes the distance between us, placing a quick kiss on my lips, before taking my hand.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly against his lips. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was watching you, beautiful,” he says. “Didn’t think you were going to get out of that truck. I was about to come over when you finally did.”

  Shit. Seriously?

  He was watching me?

  How the hell didn’t I notice him?

  He must see the question painted on my face because he laughs and continues, “You had your head down on the steering wheel.”

  “Oh, right.”

  That’s it.

  That’s all I can say.

  “Come on, baby,” he says, tugging on my hand. “Let’s go inside.”

  I go with him.

  Everything in my body tells me not to, but still, I go with him.

  I’m pretty sure I’d follow this man anywhere—everywhere.

  He lets go of my hand when we reach the door, and I’m shaking, trembling right down to my toes. He opens it, ushering me through, as he leans in to me, whispering and pointing, “Go on to the restroom right over there. I’ll follow you in just a minute.”