Carry You Home (Carry Your Heart #2)

by K. Ryan

  My head dropped forward, barely hanging on its hinges as her words washed over me. I knew all this already. But hearing it out loud—she might as well have just thrown a bucket of ice water over me.

  When she finally had enough, murmured a quick goodbye, and left the table, I sat there alone, feeling like someone had just walked up behind me and shanked me right in the back. Even as a guard motioned for me to get moving, I still sat there stiffly, frozen to the metal bench underneath me.

  It wasn't until I was back in my cell and sitting on my bed just as powerlessly and helplessly as before, that I finally did something about it. I didn't even know where to start. Didn't know how to even begin to tell her I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. All I knew was that I'd pushed away the best thing that ever happened to me and I'd get on my hands and knees every day of my life to beg if there was even a chance she could forgive me.

  So because I had no other way to reach out, I grabbed some stray paper and a pencil and started to write:

  Hey Iz...

  . . .

  Isabelle

  One Month Later

  "Well," my dad put his hands on his hips and surveyed the small space. "I think that's everything."

  My tiny one-bedroom apartment seemed even smaller filled with all these boxes, but I couldn't put a price on its biggest and most important highlights: it was only a half mile away from campus and it got me out of Claremont. I was sold before I even saw the place.

  I'd spent the first week basically a walking zombie, barely sleeping, hardly eating, and not even really human. Getting off the couch long enough to go to the bathroom was difficult enough and my dad had to practically lock me in the bathroom just to get me to take a shower.

  Somewhere between crying myself to sleep, waking up in the morning in tears, and wallowing in self-pity, I'd gotten angry. Pissed as hell was more like it. And then, after speeding over to the house and tearing apart our bedroom in a fit of blind, red-hot rage, I'd had the worst panic attack of my life with numb hands, shaking limbs, dry throat, feeling like the walls were rushing in on me—a million times worse than the one I'd had after the break-in.

  Somewhere along the way, I'd settled on an epiphany: it was time for a fresh start.

  I wouldn't give Caleb the satisfaction of acknowledging I was doing it because he'd told me to. There was nothing I could do about it anyway, considering that I'd been barred from visiting him in prison. Now I could see it for what it was: the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.

  Still, I knew, the same way I knew I couldn't go a day without holding a paintbrush in my hand, that I would never be able to shake my feelings for him.

  I could have kids with another man and wish Caleb was their father instead. I'd always wonder what my life would look like if I hadn't lost our baby, if he hadn't gone to prison, and I would be 90-years-old with an entire lifetime behind me and still know that the short year we'd spent together had been, regardless of what happened, the only time I'd truly been happy.

  With a long exhale, I ran my left hand through my auburn locks and took in the small space that would be my home from now on. The hair color change had been the first of many changes I knew I needed to make to find some semblance of a life after Caleb. Right after my breakdown in our bedroom, I carefully set my engagement ring on the kitchen counter and hadn't stepped foot in the house since.

  Ten minutes later, I'd hopped into a salon chair and made the most drastic change to my hair since, well, ever. I'd just needed to do something. Anything to have some control again. Anything to take a step towards normalcy and recovery.

  That's all I really wanted at this point. Just to feel normal again. Just to feel human again.

  "It's not as small as you said it was," my dad told me and, thankfully, interrupting my grim thoughts.

  "It's not exactly all that great either," I cocked an eyebrow at him even as he leaned forward to look out the nearest window.

  My dad glanced at me over his shoulder. "Nice view."

  "Sure," I shrugged.

  "You know," he turned around to face me again. "I'm going to miss having you at the house, but you're making the right choice here, Isabelle. You really are. I think this'll be exactly what you need. A change of scenery...a fresh start...I know it's not ideal, but you have to start somewhere."

  I smiled sadly and sucked in a deep breath. "Thanks, Dad."

  He reached out to squeeze my shoulder and then released it just as quickly.

  In the four months since I'd shown up at his doorstep, he'd weathered the storm with me exactly the way I needed him to. Even though he'd already known about the baby, he hadn't pushed for the rest of the details and I'd told him enough to fill in the blanks.

  And the most surprising part of all?

  There were no "I told you so's" and no bad-mouthing of Caleb at all. Instead, he almost seemed impressed that Caleb made the decision he did and had been nothing but respectful of him the few times we talked about Caleb, even if all that did was piss me off even more. But he'd been a rock, a place I could hide from the tornado that had ripped through my life, and for the first time since my mom's death almost two years ago, I finally felt like I had my dad back again.

  He shuffled over to my makeshift kitchen table—I'd left every single piece of furniture inside the house because I didn't even want to touch it—and swept a large manila envelope off the table.

  "You left these at the house," he told me as he held the envelope out to me. "I'm sure you left them on purpose, but they've just been piling up on the kitchen counter and besides, some new ones came in the mail this week and I don't know. If you decide to read them, I think you should have them all. And this came in the mail yesterday. I wasn't sure if you'd want it or not—"

  My eyes widened at the North Carolina Department of Corrections insignia on the envelope and snatched it out of his hands. This particular one was different than all the others I'd gotten from this address—this one was from the DOC directly. I tore it open and skimmed it as fast as my eyes would allow.

  "Inmate no. 32689, Caleb Sawyer, has requested your name to be added to his approved visitors list. Should you choose to visit, the correctional facility's visiting hours are Saturday and Sunday..."

  A million thoughts ran through my mind at once: he was okay, he wasn't hurt or sick, but what the hell? Why now? After all his grandstanding about me needing to move on with my life and how he wasn't going to put me on the list, what the hell was his problem? Part of me wanted to crush the letter in my hand or at the very least, tear the thing to pieces so I didn't have to look at it anymore.

  "What a dick," I muttered under my breath.

  "Everything alright?" my dad asked me from over my shoulder.

  "Yeah," I sighed. "He's fine. I guess."

  Silence fell between us as my dad cocked an eyebrow at me and gestured to the letter in my hand with his head. "You sure?"

  "He wants me to visit now. Can you believe that?"

  My dad rubbed his mouth and winced a little. "Yeah, actually I can."

  With another sigh, I crumpled the letter and tossed it into the closest garbage bag I could find.

  "So I take it you're not planning on seeing him anytime soon?" his soft voice called out to me.

  "No," I told him curtly. "I'm not. He can't keep jerking me around like this. It's so unfair it's not even funny."

  He lifted a shoulder with a deep sigh and set the large manila envelope back on the table. "Well, I think you're well within your rights to feel that way. But someday, you might at least decide you're ready to read them, don't you think?"

  I couldn't do or say anything except allow my eyes to rest dangerously on the large manila envelope on the table.

  "You changed your address at the post office, didn't you?"

  I nodded numbly.

  "So," he shrugged. "They'll get forwarded here now. You can do what you want with them, Isabelle, but I think you'll regret it if you throw them out."

&nb
sp; Maybe, but I couldn't let myself see him anymore than I could let myself read his letters.

  . . .

  Four Months Later

  Hey Iz,

  Have you been getting my letters? I guess I just wish there was some way I could know for sure if they're even getting to the right place. I know you haven't been living at the house for a while and that's why I started sending them to your dad's. I just don't want them to get lost in case you really are reading them.

  You're never going to believe this, but I've been doing a little reading. I know, I know. You probably thought I was illiterate or something (hey, I know big words too), but I can sort of read. My counselor told me I needed to occupy my time here in a 'positive way'. Whatever that means. Anyway, I figured, I got nothing but time, so why not give this reading thing a shot? So I went to the library, checked out some old-ass books, and started reading. I really don't have anything better to do when I'm not in the yard.

  I started with Huck Finn. That was actually pretty good. Then I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and the guy in the cell next to me started pounding on the wall because I was laughing so loud. Then I started reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I had no idea that guy was ever in prison and then I felt kind of stupid for not knowing that. Did you know he read tons of books and worked on his vocabulary when he was in prison? I didn't know that. Then I didn't feel like such an idiot about all this reading. I read a few books by Stephen King too. I really liked those, especially the one about those kids who follow the train tracks to find a dead body. I don't know why, but it kind of reminded me of when me and Dom were kids, getting dirty and getting in trouble, but not the kind of trouble that lands you in a place like this.

  I don't know. I guess I picked things I thought you'd like to read too.

  You want to know something else? I read some Shakespeare. Yeah. You can get off the floor now, Iz. One of the guys in the library told me to read Romeo and Juliet because it's one of the most famous stories ever or something like that. I didn't make it past Act 3. God, that was the most frustrating thing I've ever tried to read. I mean, why can't they all just speak English?

  I got to the part where Romeo kills Juliet's brother (or was it her cousin? I can't remember) and then he gets banished and he's in the Friar's room crying like a little baby and that's when I threw it across my cell. It just felt too familiar, you know? The guy getting everything he wants and screwing it all up because he's a hot-headed asshole. There's this line, I think it went something like, 'what says my lady to our cancelled love?' and my hands started shaking when I read it. That's exactly how I feel, Iz.

  I feel like everything we had just got cancelled, like it all just got ripped away from us. It was like Shakespeare wrote that picturing all the bullheaded, reckless, and completely stupid things I did as much as I don't like comparing myself to some sappy teenage tool.

  Not to mention the fact that those losers kill themselves in the end. Who wants to read a love story that doesn't have a happy ending?

  I guess my problem isn't really with Shakespeare, but you knew that already. I didn't realize reading can have this kind of impact, that I'd actually feel something, you know? It's weird. I'm going to keep reading though. I think I'll just stay away from Shakespeare for awhile.

  It'll just make me miss you more.

  Love you always,

  Caleb

  . . .

  Isabelle

  Six months later

  This was a terrible idea. Necessary, sure. But headed straight for disaster.

  I'd been fine with it right up until I was sitting at the bar, waiting for my date to show up. I'd been calm and collected as I drove here, making sure to text my dad to let him know I was really going through with it. He didn't believe me and given the circumstances, I couldn't exactly blame him.

  But the second I sat down on the stool and ordered a drink, my chest tightened like a vice, sucking what little air was left right out of my lungs. It was like all the agitation, unrest, and torrential heartbreak seeping through every crack in my heart threatened to implode. The weight of that implosion would break me completely and my eyes darted around anxiously for a route to the fastest exit.

  Before I had a chance to make a clean getaway, a guy dressed in jeans and a polo shirt approached me.

  "Hey, Isabelle!" he called out to me, his green eyes filling with genuine hope and anticipation.

  "Hi," I pressed a tight smile across my lips when his face lit up.

  "I'm so glad we finally decided to do this," he told me as he closed in on me.

  My eyes narrowed a little. Finally? And I didn't like the way the word, we, rolled off his tongue so comfortably. I'd known Alex in passing for a few months mainly through the coffee shop where both of us got our daily dose of caffeine in the morning. Through some small talk, a few too many run-ins, and more than a little persistence on his part, I'd agreed to meet him out for a drink. I hadn't wanted to say yes, but I also felt like I couldn't say no either. This was an opportunity to try again, to really start over, and like my dad always said, I had to start somewhere.

  Alex was, for all intents and purposes, the exact opposite of Caleb. Clean-cut, preppy, no leather in sight..the only reason I'd agreed to this in the first place was because Alex was exactly the type of guy Caleb wanted me to end up with. That thought alone sent a rush of nausea right through my stomach.

  Our conversation started off awkwardly after he ordered himself a beer and hopped up on the stool next to me at the bar. He prompted me with a few generic questions about school and all I could think was: you're not Caleb.

  When he asked me if I wanted another drink, I almost said, "You're not Caleb."

  As he asked earnestly about my upcoming gallery showing—something I now seriously regretted telling him during one of our random 'run-ins', which I suspected weren't really that random—all I could think about was how Caleb wasn't going to be there...and Alex just wasn't Caleb.

  Well-intentioned and well-meaning, but not the person I really wanted to be sitting next to.

  It was around that time the nausea and utter horror of my situation sent me high-tailing it to the ladies' room and I threw my head in the toilet where I dry-heaved for a good five minutes. When my stomach finally stopped rolling long enough to let me to slide down to the ground, I leaned heavily against the divider, trying not to think about the stickiness underneath me. This was never going to end. Why the hell did I ever think it could?

  Life after Caleb didn't even seem like a possibility anymore. This wasn't actual living. This was just existing.

  My fingers brushed my stomach and tears stung my eyes.

  I was completely pathetic. Pining away for a guy who didn't want me. Still loving him and still hurting because of him. Still wishing everything could've been different for us. And it didn't matter that he'd already been gone for 10 months and that he kept writing and started calling, too, because it was over.

  The only thing I could do now was just keep moving forward, at least as much as possible. So this date hadn't exactly panned out. I'd dry-heaved in the toilet at barely 20 minutes of small talk with a guy who wasn't Caleb and at some point, I was going to have to figure out how to do this. I was going to have to figure out how to date other guys, be with other guys, and eventually, love another guy.

  With a sigh, I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my head against the metal divider. Who was I kidding? There would never be anyone else.

  I would always love him.

  It was just that simple and that devastating.

  . . .

  Six Months Later

  Hey Iz,

  How's your summer break going? I know you were in the semester showcase again. Why would they choose anyone else? People were probably crowding around all your pieces just to get a closer look. I tried looking it up online to see if I could find any pictures, but they don't let guys in prison use the internet. I can pretty much only use the computer to type and I'd rather just w
rite you these letters. It just feels more like I'm actually talking to you this way.

  Getting past the halfway point feels weird. These last 14 months have felt so long and so short, if that makes any sense. I've got 10 months left in here and I feel like I haven't really slept, I mean really slept this whole time. It's hard and it's not just about being trapped in a cell. It's about everything I know I'm missing. Your birthday. All of your shows. Christmas. Waking up with you in the morning. Touching you. Just getting to see you and hear how your day was.

  I need to move on to a different topic, don't you think?

  I have something to tell you actually. I waited a little while because I wasn't sure I would actually keep up with it and I didn't want you to get all excited and proud only for me to tell you in a couple months that I quit. But here it goes. I started working on a degree. I guess the reading thing was working out so well that my counselor got me started on an accelerated program. I might have a few credits left to finish when I get out, but that's not a big deal.

  Business sounded pretty boring at first, but I figured that's the one thing I might actually be able to use when I bust out of this place. The classes are okay. Lots of economics, accounting, and marketing. Some psychology too. I actually don't mind it. I'm not as bad at math as I thought I was, so that means there's still some hope for me left, right?

  I guess I just wanted to see if I was smart enough to do it and this is a different kind of school than I'm used to. I can do it all at my own pace and there's still a teacher there to help me if I have questions. I like this a lot better than high school, that's for sure. Knowing this will help me, that I'm doing something I can put to use, it makes me actually try and concentrate. It's better just keep to myself as much as possible anyway and there are plenty of quiet places to sit and study in peace.