A Worthy Man

by Jaime Reese

  Drayton stared.

  “Don’t make fun of my name. Be original.”

  Drayton straightened, shifting the book from one arm to the other when it almost fell. “I wasn’t going to make fun of your name. I was going to ask if I could call you Vann.”

  Shaw paused for a moment, then nodded, almost shyly. “No one’s ever called me that.”

  “Maybe it’s because you don’t tell them your first name.”

  “You’re a snarky little shit, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not little.”

  Vann chuckled. “Your name. Double D.”

  Drayton sighed and his shoulders sagged. “I thought you said to be original. Why are you making fun of my name?”

  “Because I know people with truckloads of money don’t do that.” He shrugged. “Can I call you Dray?”

  “Makes me sound cooler than I am.”

  “So you prefer Double D then?” Vann said, trying—and failing miserably—to hide a grin as Drayton shook his head. “So then I’ll call you Dray.”

  Drayton pushed up the eyeglasses again when they slid down his nose, biting back a smile. He loved the sound of his name slipping through Vann’s lips like an exhale.

  Drayton closed his eyes and sighed, reveling in the emotions each time a memory resurfaced, rich with enough detail to fill his senses.

  That first encounter led to an unbreakable friendship that transitioned into a love so strong Drayton swore his soul had been branded by Vann. To this day, he remembered every conversation, every detail, each tiny whisper, and every minute contact. He could easily recall every phrase said in the darkness and every snarky retort and snappy comeback. Not a day passed without a welcome memory of Vann invading his senses—the sound of his voice, the softness of his lips, the tightness of his hold.

  He returned his focus to his reflection.

  They had cherished seven years together before they were ripped apart.

  Seven glorious years that had flown by in the blink of an eye.

  Followed by ten years apart that seemed like an eternity.

  He reached up and brushed his fingertips along the graying hair at his temple. Only a few strands, but enough to serve as a reminder he was now a thirty-four-year-old man and no longer the same thin, nerdy guy hiding behind thick-rimmed glasses. He was lean but strong and stood a hell of a lot more confidently than he ever did when younger.

  And that was all because of Vann.

  His strength of character came from Vann’s repeated words. His success in his business was a result of Vann’s unwavering faith and support in his mind and abilities when everyone else discarded him. He looked at his reflection again. He was there…alive…because of Vann. He ducked his head and closed his eyes. He owed him so much. He missed his best friend and lover—his partner in every sense of the word.

  His soul mate.

  As soon as he had been discharged from the hospital, he’d begun writing letters to Vann. Short letters, offering a reminder that he was still there for him. Thinking about him. Waiting for the day fate would reunite them. He remembered the need to hear his voice, to see him, to know he was okay.

  He also remembered the initial sting of pain that surfaced when Vann’s first letter had arrived.

  Drayton rubbed his temples and sighed. He opened the dresser drawer and carefully pulled out the worn letter he had received ten years ago. Vann was more of a thinker than a talker. And he knew Vann had carefully chosen each written word and had probably gone through several drafts before finally sending it off.

  ~ * ~

  Hi, Dray,

  I don’t know if I’m going to say this right and I’m worried you’re going to hate me by the end of this letter. Maybe that’ll make things easier. I don’t know. But this letter is tough to write, and I really need you to try to understand.

  Please don’t send me any more money. They told me you made a deposit into my commissary account. Please don’t. You know how I feel about you paying for things. There’s work I can do here and earn some money. So it’s okay.

  Now comes the really hard part. I know you want to visit, but I can’t see you. Even writing this letter is hard. I feel as if I need to guard my words or you’ll worry about how I’m doing in here. And you’ll be sad, upset, or feel guilty. I don’t want that.

  It’s tough. There, I said it so you don’t have to wonder what I mean. I can’t make it sound nice because it’s not. It’s hard as hell here. It brings out the worst in me. And I don’t want you to ever see me like that. But that’s who I need to be to survive in here. I have to wear a mask and full battle armor and I can’t let my guard down. I know you can’t understand that part, but it’s like I’m surrounded by three dozen guys who are worse than my father. All the time. And they can smell weakness and fear.

  You know there was no way I was getting a free pass for what I did. I took a life and I’m paying for that with mine. But that doesn’t mean you have to trade in your life too. I don’t want you to feel chained to me because you feel guilty or as if you owe me anything because of what I did. You don’t. You gave me more during our seven years than I ever had in my entire life. So you’re still way ahead if you’re using your math to keep track.

  I can stand being in here if I know you’re out there living and breathing and changing the world like I know you will. So don’t feel as if you need to see me or write me or think about me. I don’t want you worrying about me or wondering how I’m doing. I think that might slow you down. Everyone always said I held you back.

  You know I can’t lie to you. It would be easier if you didn’t write. It would be easier if I let the hate take over and went back to being that guy I was before we became friends. But every time I get one of your letters, I realize I can’t let you go completely. I don’t know if it’s the memories you write about, the fact that you’re still thinking about me even though I’m not around, or the way I imagine you smiling as you’re writing this stuff. It’s as if I can breathe again when I read your words. But seeing you? I can’t. The moment you see me in here, that smile’s going to fade and then that’s all I’m going to see. That worry and sadness. And if that happens, it’s going to shit all over our memories and happy times and I won’t be able to survive knowing I screwed that all up. I need our memories to get me through the days. Please try to understand.

  I know you’re just as stubborn as I am, and I’m guessing you’ll keep writing. At least, for a little while until you find another way to put “us” behind you and move on. I’ll read your letters, you know I will. And I’ll be right there reliving each memory with you. But I won’t write you back. I can’t. It hurts to say that, but I can’t lie to you. There’s no way I’m going to write you a letter and tell you I’m fine when I’m not. And there’s no way I’m going to tell you what happens in here. There’s no need for you to know what a hell like this is like. Ever. You don’t fit in a place like this. And I don’t see how it would be good for you to have a pen pal thing going on with a guy who’s doing life in prison. That’s a surefire way for me to hold you back and that’s not something I ever wanted to do.

  But the worst part, seeing you and staying in touch would give me hope. Hope that there’s still a chance that one day, maybe I’ll be free again to touch you or kiss you. Having that hope is the worst thing to hold on to in here because it makes the days longer and the pain sharper. And my public defender guy said I wasn’t getting out of here and I needed to work on accepting that fact.

  I need you to please live your life. Live for the both of us. Change the world the way I know you will. If you want to write a letter, please know that I’ll read it, over and over until I memorize it. If you want to see me, just look at that picture where we’re so damn happy. Because I want you to remember how happy we were in that moment. That’s how I want you to remember us.

  I’m sorry I won’t be able to keep the promise I made you that day. That’s one thing I will always regret in all this.

  D+V=
∞

  Know that nothing you do or say or write will ever change that formula for me. Ever.

  I’m yours. Always.

  ~V

  ~ * ~

  Drayton carefully folded the letter and returned it to its spot in the drawer for safekeeping.

  The initial sting of pain he had felt quickly fueled his resolve. He knew Vann just as well as Vann knew him. And, without question, that letter was Vann’s way of still protecting him. But there was no way in hell Drayton was going to sit on the sidelines and let Vann fade away. He couldn’t risk Vann giving up—on life, on him…on them. So Drayton continued to write his letters, detailing different memories from their time together, hoping they offered a tiny ray of light during his dark time. One letter each week with another memory and another moment that always made Drayton smile as he wrote the short letter.

  He continued the one-sided writing and had only pushed for one reply a few years ago to confirm Vann received his correspondence. He pulled the second envelope from the drawer with the reply letter he had received, remembering his surprise when it had arrived a few days after his request.

  ~ * ~

  Dray,

  I am receiving your letters.

  Every one of them.

  Thank you.

  ~V

  ~ * ~

  He brushed his fingers over the paper, smiling, knowing Vann had touched the same sheet as he wrote his reply. Three short sentences, but the hint of gratitude and the speed of response were enough for Drayton to continue writing. He folded the letter again and carefully stashed it back into the worn envelope.

  He took a deep breath and rubbed the tight knot in his chest. The ache of Vann’s absence still remained the same after all these years.

  Ten years apart.

  Five hundred twenty-five weeks’ worth of letters.

  He couldn’t help but wonder how much Vann had changed over the years and the damage prison had had on his fighting spirit.

  With renewed determination, he yanked the tie from his collar and shrugged out of the suit jacket. Vann would either laugh it off or put up his guard, thinking he’d officially become one of those pompous rich kids he’d hated growing up. No way would he risk the latter. He unbuttoned the dress shirt and pulled the shirttails out of his dress slacks, toeing off his Italian leather shoes as he walked over to his closet. He ran his hand over each suit, discarding them all for the same reason, before turning toward the other section of his closet with the more casual clothing he rarely had a chance to wear. Having the most sought after exotic electric automobile car line and innovative motor definitely proved to have been a worthy investment of his time. Fuck all those other yacht club kids who thought he was the odd man out. They were too busy being overshadowed by their family business and legacy to breathe, let alone stand on their own and actually create something that changed several aspects of the automotive and energy-use world.

  He grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath, quickly dressing in his tenth outfit attempt during the last hour. He spotted his reflection and finger brushed his hair, feeling far more comfortable than he had only a few moments ago. He threw an extra pair of jeans and a light Henley into his overnight bag—he’d iron them out when he finally checked in to the nearby hotel. Besides, he probably wouldn’t get an ounce of sleep with the excitement thrumming through his veins, but he refused to wear himself out with the long drive there and back in a single run. He grabbed his car keys before heading out the door.

  After ten years, Vann was finally getting out tomorrow. And there was no way in hell he would be denied that encounter.

  Because there was nothing Drayton wanted more than to make up for every second of lost time.

  “Vannguard Shaw,” the officer said, looking through the mesh, metal panel.

  Vann rose from the folding chair and walked up to the window. He hated his name—a stupid joke from his drunk father randomly picking a word from the hospital’s waiting room bulletin board of services. Or maybe it was because his dear ol’ dad had been too wasted to even spell it right on the birth certificate, rolling and slurring the letters just as he did his speech when he was too damn drunk to think straight.

  “It’s Shaw.”

  The officer gave him the standard-issue authoritative stare-down he was familiar with when he dared show any sign of going against the grain.

  “Vannguard Shaw,” the guard repeated with a wry grin. “I have personal belongings from your check-in, including one leather wallet, two ten-dollar bills, and one driver’s license. We also have two personal items from your cell, including one notebook and one photograph. Sign here.” The officer handed over the clipboard and threw the contents into a large manila folder.

  He grabbed the pen and squiggled his signature. He tugged on the collar of his new black T-shirt, fitting a bit more snugly than his usual stiff prison clothing. He rubbed his hands on his jean-covered thighs and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, enjoying the feel of the new boots on his feet.

  The officer retrieved the clipboard and checked the form, ripped off a copy, and handed it over to him. “You need to sign this too.”

  In exchange for his second signature, he received a pink copy with a crisp, one hundred dollar bill for transfer expenses. In some sad, twisted irony of life, that was more money than he’d ever had in his hand at once in the twenty-one years before he had checked into this place. A hundred bucks for a decade lost to this hell.

  Great. He was now a thirty-one-year-old ex-con. He could practically hear the stampede of people waiting to meet him. Not.

  “Mr. Shaw is responsible for your transport.”

  Mr. Shaw? “There must be some mistake.”

  That earned him another chastising look.

  He sighed.

  And cursed under his breath.

  They probably screwed up the paperwork and saw “father” checked off on some box and assumed they shared the same last name. After all, who the hell else did he have who would transport his ass over to the new halfway house where he was supposed to spend the next few months of his parole. His drunk father had donated his sperm and a lifetime of punches and headaches, but he definitely hadn’t given his name or his hand in marriage to his mom before she’d died during childbirth. He’d lost count of how many times he’d thanked the heavens the hospital had given him his mother’s last name on his birth certificate. Dear ol’ dad had taken him in but sure as hell was quick to throw his ass out in the street as soon as he’d hit eighteen and the government assistance stopped.

  Regardless of the circumstance, he’d been glad to get out of that house. Seemed his father’s sole purpose in life was to remind his son of how worthless he was to humanity, and there was only so much of that shit a person could take and stay sane.

  “The paperwork’s approved. Deal with it. Keep the pen. Have a nice life.” The guard pushed off the desk, rose from his rolling chair, and walked away, leaving him alone to sort the few items carefully into his wallet. Lovely. How could someone drop a little bombshell like that and walk away?

  He smoothed out the bills before slipping them in the compartment. He stared at the photo of a younger, happier version of himself with a young Drayton at his side, smiling into the camera. He ran the tip of his thumb along the image, sighing as a memory came crashing in.

  “Hey, Double D?”

  His childhood friend sighed. “I hate it when you call me that. Makes me sound like a pair of tits.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Drayton gave him a pinched expression and hesitated before speaking. “I…don’t like tits.”

  Vann looked at him for a few seconds then shrugged. “That’s cool.”

  His friend pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “Yeah?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re really okay with that?” his friend asked, holding a textbook under his arm. He always seemed to carry
some book or magazine, filled with either science, math, or some other weird foreign-looking language consisting of numbers, letters, and odd symbols.

  They silently walked along the dirt road that ran behind the park, enjoying the quiet moments just as much as the banter. There was an ease between them, enough to let his guard down more often than not. “Dray?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re really the only double D I’m into.”

  “Yeah?” his friend asked, his eyebrows inching above the rim of his glasses.

  “Yeah.”

  Vann folded and carefully tucked the photograph safely into his wallet and slid the pen into the spiral of the small notebook.

  He blew out a nervous breath and pitched the now-empty manila folder into the garbage can by the doorway on his way out. He stepped out into the open space just inside the exit gate, flinching at the bright afternoon sun. Hello, Florida. The sharp sunlight hurt his eyes, reminding him of the milder daylight during his scheduled one hour in the yard in the early morning hours—like a grade-school kid granted recess to play with the other children. Assuming, of course, he didn’t do something that earned him some time in solitary.

  He clasped his hands with the notebook behind his back, the same at-ease position he commonly took during check-ins and random inspections. He closed his eyes, fighting the prickling burn, counting the seconds with each grinding turn of the metal gears of the large fence as it inched open. He took a deep, centering breath, calming the slow simmering panic at the thought of rejoining the regularly scheduled programming called “life” that never seemed to play nice with him. He bit back his building anger at the thought of seeing his father again. The thought of being stuck with Mr. Asshole for his transport to the assigned halfway house churned his stomach.

  Ten years. Ten fucking years and twenty-nine days.