by K. Ryan
Dom said I'm the only person he knows who'd go to prison just to end up in college, but I don't really see it that way. I think the problem is that guys like me and Dom, who don't know anything different than life in the club, we think that's all there is. We don't think we have any other options when we do. We just don't know how to figure out what those options are. It's not like anyone in the club is going to help us.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I was someone else, someone who wasn't raised in this. I don't think I would've chosen it if I hadn't grown up around it all my life. I don't know how I feel about that and I don't really know what I'm supposed to do about it either.
I started talking to this guy I met in the library (he's the one who told me to read Romeo and Juliet) and he told me he wakes up everyday and wishes he was dead. He's finishing up 10 years in here for vehicular manslaughter and you know, I get where he's coming from.
He said he feels like his whole life was leading up to the moment he got in the car and if he'd made one different decision somewhere, somehow, maybe he wouldn't have gotten in that car.
It's crazy because that's exactly how I feel. I feel like my whole life was leading up to the moment I decided to go on that run. If I was a different person, if I lived a different life, I never would've even been at the table having that conversation with Marcus. I think I'm starting to figure out that I can sit here with my head in my hands and wish away all my mistakes or I can do something about it. At least that's what I told him when we got to talking. I'm still working out how to do that.
I told him about you. I hope that's okay. It was just nice to talk to someone who understood how I'm feeling.
Anyway, I have to get going so I can study a little bit. I have a test later today in my business marketing class and my buddy from the library is going to quiz me. I bet you never thought I'd ever say something like that, huh? It's weird, I know.
I hope you're okay. I hope you're happy. I hope...I don't know. I just hope.
Love you always,
Caleb
. . .
Isabelle
Eight Months Later
"This is the one, Isabelle," Dr. Jacobs pointed abruptly to the painting to my left, her flowery French accent making her sound a little more nonchalant than she really was.
I flinched at her choice. Why, oh why, did I bring it in? All I'd wanted was some feedback. That was it. A few critiques here and there about my technique and I would've been perfectly happy with that. But no. She had to push and push until she got her way. That way, it seemed, involved putting my most personal painting to date on display for everyone to see.
With only two months until Caleb was released, my emotions had been getting the better of me. And, true to form, I'd let those emotions manifest themselves across the canvas in splatters and swirls of blue.
To me, it was grotesque and seeping with self-loathing. To Dr. Jacobs, the painting was raw and 'crackling with pain'. Those were her exact words. I'd wanted to throw my paintbrush at her. Maybe I should've.
"I don't know," I sighed. This was a wasted effort. She would not be reasoned with. "It's just too personal. I don't feel comfortable opening myself up this way for everyone else to see."
She just lifted a shoulder, her eyes never leaving my painting. "Your first showcase, if I remember correctly, was stuffed full of personal pieces."
My first showcase, and I did remember correctly, was also during a time in my life when I'd had a solid foundation to stand on. I'd been able to let go more easily because, other than the pieces inspired by my mom and Becca, everything else was positive. Happy. Contented, if not a little anxiety-ridden. But it was okay then. I was okay then. Now, I felt like I was just stumbling around the wreckage, slipping and sliding on the rubble with little hope for rebuilding.
"Isabelle," Dr. Jacobs rested a hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "Raw emotion, whether it's good or bad or happy or devastating—that's what life is all about. You must have the courage to reach out and grab it while you have the chance. And you can't worry about what other people will think. True artists channel their pain because pain is something we all feel every single day."
I didn't like the sound of that. And I really didn't like the idea of my personal devastation being printed in the university magazine. The exposure was insane, but any other painting and I'd be all over it. But this one? The one I'd painted after a particular sleepless night where I'd missed Caleb so badly, where I'd let pain and depression swallow me whole, and I'd sobbed for hours, hugging my pillow and imagining it was him...this one wasn't really intended for anyone else to see.
The worst part was that I'd painted this just a month ago, so that pretty much spoke volumes for how much I'd figured my shit out. Basically, not at all. I was existing, sure. Going back and forth between classes and work. Getting coffee on the other side of campus so I didn't run into Alex. Meeting my dad once a week for dinner halfway between campus and Claremont. It wasn't much of a life, but it was mine.
"Think about it, Isabelle," Dr. Jacobs stressed and gestured toward my painting again. "Pieces like this? They're not meant to stay locked inside you. They must be shared. They must be seen."
My eyes fell to the painting and I pushed out a deep breath. This was probably a losing battle.
"And," she went on as she pushed a file folder into my chest. "I printed a few things for you to take a look at. I think there might be some options you'd be interested in."
I numbly slid the folder away from my chest and flipped it open. It took me a moment to realize what she'd given me, but my eyes darted back up to her just as quickly.
"Internships? Really?"
She just shrugged. "Yes. You need to start building relationships with galleries that can continue to give you the exposure you need to have a successful career. Many galleries, particularly the ones there in that folder, choose to work exclusively with artists they have a history with. Internships with most galleries are thankless work, but if you intern at any of these places, you'll automatically have a foot in the door for gallery space."
We'd spoken about this before, but at that point, graduation hadn't seemed so imminent. She was right. I needed options and I needed to find them before I graduated and before Caleb got out of prison. If I didn't have some sort of plan, even if it was vague and poorly-drawn, I just didn't know how I'd ever really be able to gain any traction on my own.
It wasn't until I was back in my apartment and sitting at my kitchen table that it really sunk in.
To my left sat a shoebox full of unopened letters. To my right, the file folder stuffed with opportunities. My past and my future lined up right next to each other.
I blew out a deep breath and flipped open the folder. Dr. Jacobs had been thorough. Raleigh. Chicago. Los Angeles. New York. Washington, D.C. Boston.
New York called to me in all its art-scene glory. I could already imagine myself walking through Central Park with my sketchbook and trekking through fresh snow to get to a gallery. New York was a place where this thing inside me, this passion, this creativity, could thrive and grow and maybe even make me some money if I was lucky.
Then, as if my fingers had a mind of their own, they trailed over the top of the shoebox and pushed it off. They dipped inside the box and lifted one off the pile. It was like clockwork—a new letter came every Monday and Thursday and he called every Friday at 3:00 on the dot. I always let it go right through the automated message asking me if I wanted to accept a call from an inmate at the North Carolina Department of Corrections and that was always when I hung up.
I just couldn't let myself go there. I couldn't give in. If I read one letter or took one phone call, that would be it. I'd forgive him. I wasn't sure if I could ever do that even if I wanted to.
So, with a heavy sigh, I opened up my laptop instead and Googled the first gallery in the folder.
. . .
Six Weeks Later
Hey Iz,
Two
weeks. That's all I have to survive now. Just two weeks. I made it this far, so this should be a walk in the park, right?
I just have one more test to take and I'll officially have an associate's degree in business. I still can't believe I actually did it. I guess I still don't really know what I'm going to do with that when I get out, but I'll figure it out. If anything, I'll probably be able to earn my keep a little more at the shop. It's crazy to think that I started out working on this degree just because I needed more things to do to pass the time, not thinking any of it would ever matter, and now I feel like I really did something worthwhile with my time here.
Maybe Dom was right. Maybe the only way I was ever getting to college was by going to prison. But I didn't waste these two years. I read a lot. I learned a lot. I definitely never thought I'd ever actually like school. So it wasn't all bad, not like it was really all that good either.
I have a plan, Iz. When I get out, the first thing I'm going to do is corner Lex and I'm not moving until she tells me where you're living now. I'm sure you live on campus, but I still need the address so I can get to you. I know my mom won't tell me, but I'm hoping Lex will tell me just to get me off her back. Then I'm getting on my bike and I'm coming to you.
I don't care where you are or how far I have to go, I'll get there. I don't care if all I get to do is walk you to class. I'll take it if it means I get to see you. I'll walk you to class every day if it means I still get to be part of your life. I know I don't have any right to do that, but I just need to see you, Iz. I can't wait any longer.
I really hope you're reading this.
Love you always,
Caleb
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fickle Fortune
Isabelle
I blew out a deep breath and glanced at the digital clock above my stove. Another half hour and I'd have to leave for work. On any normal day, I wouldn't be just sitting here, staring at the clock and swallowing back butterflies in my stomach, but this wasn't just an average day. Today was the day Caleb got out of prison.
Today was also the day I knew I'd have to see him.
I didn't know how and I didn't know when, but I knew he'd find me.
Even I knew those thoughts were along the lines of Sleeping With The Enemy meets Fear, but this was Caleb. Finding me today wasn't about anything other than groveling. I knew this because even during this last week, his letters and his calls still came like clockwork.
All I had to do was make myself scarce today. Go to my studio space on campus or even just get in my mom's car and drive. If I wasn't here, I wouldn't have to see him. Even if he somehow figured out where I worked, I doubted he'd show up there unannounced and uninvited. But instead of doing any of those things, here I was, fidgeting at my kitchen table and waiting.
The whole thing was just so pathetic. I just spent the last two years trying to find a way to move forward, but on the day I really needed to be strong and show some backbone, I couldn't move. Sure, if we missed each other somehow today there'd always be tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that until we finally reconnected, but that was exactly what I was afraid of.
Reconnecting. Seeing if we could reclaim a little bit of what we lost. Picking up where we left off.
That just couldn't happen. Life just didn't work that way. My eyes fell to the small stack of envelopes sitting on the table in front of me and I sucked in a harsh breath. A few of them I'd opened. The rest were the last ones I'd gotten from Caleb. My fingers itched to rip them open, but I'd held out this long. I couldn't break now when it mattered the most.
But when that telltale engine roared down my street, all the hairs on my arm stood on end. Reason told me it could be anyone because plenty of motorcycles had driven down this street before. Instinct told me something else. My body, my senses, my heart...they all knew.
Everything was on high alert and working overdrive as I raced headfirst toward the inevitable, listening for the buzzer, and skating dangerously between feeling like puking and darting around the room like the crazy person I'd become.
Two seconds later, the buzzer rang out through my apartment.
My chest heaved and tightened, but I froze. I could still ignore him, couldn't I? It would be so easy to just pretend I wasn't here. He'd never know. But then he'd just keep coming back and keep calling.
So against my better judgment, I hit the talk button on the intercom.
"Hello?"
Not even a beat later and I heard the voice I'd only heard in my dreams, the same voice that could elicit emotions in me I'd rather keep buried.
"Hey, Iz. It's me," he paused for a moment, his voice a little breathless and a little deeper than I remembered. "Can I come in?"
My hands twisted into knots at my waist, hesitation weighing me down. I took a breath and hit the button to unlock the main door in my shared entryway. No going back now.
He sure as shit didn't waste any time and I could hear him bounding up the steps right before the hard knock at my door. If that wasn't a harsh dose of reality then I didn't know what was. I stared at my door, swallowing tightly and finally, I had to squeeze my eyes shut just to keep the room from spinning as I reached for the door handle.
The door opened and there he was, crowding my doorway with his presence, which right about now, felt bigger than my whole apartment complex and the neighborhood combined. He seemed taller somehow, leaner yet brawnier at the same time and his hair was tied back behind his head. All his tattoos, including the upside down compass I'd designed for him, were on display over the sinewy lines of his forearms. But once I recovered from the initial shock of being so close to him after all this time, my attention never waned from his face and the way his lips curved up into a hopeful grin.
I sucked in a tight breath and it was all I could do to keep my feet planted a safe distance away.
It was his eyes that nearly did me in. Relief. Happiness. Exhaustion. Anticipation. Worry. Apology. Love. It was all there in those gorgeous blue eyes I saw every time I closed my eyes.
"Hey, Iz," he smiled softly and leaned forward a little, wanting to be asked inside, but trying not to overstep.
It was right on the tip of my tongue to ask him not to call me that, but I couldn't deny the way my heart leapt into my throat at that name on his lips. I hated and loved that name all at the same time.
"Hi, Caleb," I whispered.
Pure elation spread across his face the moment I spoke like it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard and in that moment, I imagined it was.
He gestured with his head towards my apartment. "Is it alright if I come in? We can talk out in the hallway if you—"
"No, it's okay," I cut in before I could stop myself and opened the door a little wider so he could step inside. "You can come in."
After he took a few hesitant steps inside, an awkward silence permeated the air between us. Neither of us really knew what to do, what to say, or where to even begin.
"So, um," I tried to smile, but I couldn't decide whether smiling at him was good or bad for me. "When did you get out today?"
His eyes trailed over me, drinking me in, and I felt it almost as if he'd actually reached out to physically touch me. It singed my skin and left me gasping for air, desperate to touch him back.
Then his lips curved up in a knowing smile. "A little over an hour ago."
There was a part of me, the same part that refused to go ignored, that was thrilled beyond belief that the first thing he did when he got out was come see me. That he'd literally gotten to the clubhouse, interrogated someone for my new address—I felt really bad for Lexie right about now—and raced through the 45 minutes it took to get here from Claremont. Then the other part of me remembered him telling me to move on, to go out and live my life without him, to find some guy who could give me all the things he couldn't all because he'd gotten himself sent to prison.
"Okay."
I didn't know what else to say.
He shoved his hands deep insid
e his front pockets and chewed nervously on his bottom lip. "So, um—"
"I have to go to work," I butted in. "I just wanted to let you know I have to leave soon."
He nodded immediately, undeterred. "No problem, Iz. I just wanted to see you."
Another awkward moment passed and he ran a hand over his head, a gesture I was well-acquainted with.
"Where do you work?"
I glanced down at my usual work uniform, just a black pencil skirt and matching peplum tank top, and bit my lip. "I don't know if I want to tell you."
Alarm flashed across his face and I jumped to clarify.
"I just mean," I pushed out a rough breath and laughed unsteadily. "You're gonna make fun of me if I tell you."
That initial alarm vanished and relief flooded his face as his lips curled up into that crooked smirk that always had the power to make me weak in the knees.
"Come on, Iz," he tilted his head to the side a little as he grinned. "You can tell me."
I knew I could tell him anything and that was what scared me. Pushing that aside, I laughed again and lifted my eyes to the ceiling.
"I work at one of the makeup counters in Macy's."
His lips twitched in amusement and he had to bite down on his bottom lip just to keep from laughing right in my face. "Of course you do."
I shook my head and smiled right back at him. "Shut up."
Even as his smile seemed to grow even wider, Caleb took a tiny step closer to me. "I'm sorry. I won't say another word about it. Promise."
I wanted to reach for him and I didn't. Instead, I found myself gravitating toward him, letting myself get drawn back in like a stupid, masochistic moth to a flame.
"Did you get my letters?" his soft voice called out to me as he took another step closer.