Authors: K. Ryan
"I think it's time for you to go now."
Still, she doesn't move. Instead, those lips part again. "I just want to help. I just want to do the right thing for once and I need your help to do that. I mean, it had to be someone connected to my dad, right? Someone he pissed off? That's the only thing that makes sense."
My eyebrows lift and I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. "Wow. So it took you seven years to figure out something everyone in Southie has known from the beginning, huh? That doesn't bode too well for your future detective work—just sayin'."
"Will you just...stop? Please? I'm trying to help. What part of that is so hard to understand?"
I just grin. "The part where I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. That part."
She huffs and part of me is waiting for her to stomp her feet until she gets what she wants. Somehow, she seems more like the type to shoot daggers at me until I finally give in than whine and complain.
"Look, I wrote to Sean and asked him if I could visit—"
"Whoa. What the hell did you just say?"
I blink a few times just to make sure this is real. This sorry excuse for a human being actually had the nerve to
write
to him? After what she did? After the way she completely obliterated any chance he had at a normal life?
"I need to look him in the eye and tell him I'm sorry. I need to tell him that I'm going to try—"
"You're not doing shit."
Her eyes flash and she takes a dangerous step forward, so I match her move. "Stop interrupting me. I can barely get a word in long enough to really explain this to you."
"I honestly don't care. There isn't a snowball's chance in hell that he's actually going to agree to see you. And even if he does, you don't deserve to even be in the same room as him. You don't deserve the right to apologize."
She rears back like I've just slapped her and I guess I might as well have. So now I take this opportunity to deliver my last blow and grab her elbow to haul her ass out the door. She doesn't fight me and it's nice to see she's at least smart enough to know she doesn't stand a chance. I yank her all the way to the door, open it with my free hand, and shove her outside. She yelps a little when the night air hits her face and I just ignore it, resting both palms on the entryway to loom in front of her.
"Yah wanna know why I'm not gonna help you?"
To her credit, she doesn't move. Her eyes are glassy with tears, but I bet she's holding them in until I slam the door in her face.
I lean in to make sure she can hear me.
"I'm not gonna help you because I don't believe you. I don't know why you thought you could show up here and why you thought any of your lies would matter, but they don't. Even if you're actually telling me the truth, you're a coward for waiting this long. I don't help liars and I don't help cowards. And if I ever see your face in my neighborhood again, I won't be so friendly next time."
Then I slam the door in her face.
Rae
On Tuesday, my answer arrives the old fashioned way. My fingertips tremble the second they brush the Department of Corrections insignia and I can't rip the envelope open fast enough.
His response is short, but to the point: "
Raena, I put your name on my visitor list. Please visit on Sundays. See you soon. Sean."
I have to reread it twice just to digest everything he's told me in a few sentences. He'll see me. There's no animosity in his words, at least not that I can tell.
See you soon...
does that mean he actually
wants
to see me? And if he does, what does that mean? Maybe he wants to punish me or berate me for what I've done to him. Maybe he just wants to sit across from me one time and hear me apologize.
Whatever the reason, I'm not going to let it stop me.
Sunday. Alright. I can do that. I'll just have to tell Lucy she has to open the store until I can get there. Of course, that'll mean she'll actually have to take it easy on Saturday night so she can get up earlier in the morning, but I guess she has to learn how to be an adult sometime. Might as well start now.
And then the implication of Sunday slowly curls around me and squeezes tight. That's just four days away. That hardly seems like enough time to mentally prepare myself for coming face to face with the man whose life I ruined. Like mentally preparing for something like that is even really possible...and Sunday also means that's the day Jack will be visiting too.
Since the visiting hours are from one to four, there's a chance I could miss him, but with my luck, we'll probably show up within minutes of each other.
I push that thought away and jump to work: there's a visitor application attached with Sean's letter, so I fill it out and get it back in the mail. Even though I've done everything as quickly as possible, I don't hear back from the DoC until almost a week later. That's fine. I've already been waiting this long, another week is just a drop in the hat.
Sunday arrives and I make the trip up to Concord by myself. Nobody knows my plans, not even Bennett, and I guess it has more to do with me needing to do this on my own than anything. Not to mention the fact that anyone I do tell will just try to talk me out of it and then check me into a mental institution.
And now, once I've cleared through security and sit in the waiting room for my turn with destiny, the inevitable happens. Just when I'd almost gotten a handle on my emotions—my hands had stilled and my eyes had finally stopped stinging—
he
shows up.
Jack strides through the metal detector leading to the waiting room easily like he's done this a million times before and I guess he has. Luckily enough, he hasn't spotted me yet and that gives me plenty of time to dig my book out of my bag and flip it open as if his appearance hasn't transformed me into a shaky mess.
Only my breath is a dead giveaway and there isn't much I can do about that right now.
I don't know the exact moment he sees me because I'm too busy pretending
The Age of Innocence
is the most spell-binding book I've ever read. The story, with its scandalous love triangle, isn't so bad, but it's one of those books you feel like you
should
read and then have zero fun doing it. Still, this is the only real defense I have, so I run with it.
At some point, though, Jack drops down into the squeaky plastic chair next to me and turns his head toward me. My eyes stay trained on the worn pages in my hands, defiantly stubborn. I can't let myself look at him. I just can't.
He's a dick,
I remind myself.
He's a judgmental, mean dick.
It doesn't help that he was right about pretty much everything that night I stupidly sought him out. What was I thinking...going there and expecting him to be anything but hostile? If I'm being completely honest with myself, which is slowly becoming a habit these days, I think I wanted his help just as much as I wanted to see him again.
One opportunity and I'm right back where I started, stupid and reckless. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I really haven't learned anything. Months of therapy and rehab clearly weren't enough to right this ship, but I like to think I'm better off now than I was when I was 16 and so far off the rails I'm lucky my brain still functions.
It was a low blow, him bringing up my past like he had any idea what I'd been through or why I'd even done it in the first place. His phrasing was particularly telling—he clearly believes the rumors that have been spread about me through the years. I can't really blame him though. My past is as good a reason as any not to trust me.
But that doesn't mean I'm going to let him see how much his animosity burned and blistered me. How much his well-placed hate battered me. I deserved it—I
still
deserve it—but that doesn't mean I have to sit and take it anymore.
"What part of
leave my brother alone
did you not understand?" Jack mutters, but the malice in his voice is unmistakable.
Without a word, I slip my hand in my purse, pull out Sean's letter, and pass it to him with my eyes still focused on my page. I might not be prepared to see Sean today, but I did come prepared for this.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Jack skim the short letter. He blows out a heavy breath and then thrusts it back at me like he just can't bear to look at it any longer.
"I just don't get it," he murmurs.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair and it creaks underneath my weight.
Do not engage,
I tell myself.
He's not worth it.
Talking to him isn't going to do me any favors, especially since he's not even the one I'm here to see. He can sit there and pout for the rest of visiting hours for all I care.
With my focus still firmly on the book in my hands, maybe now's a good time to actually turn the page. Might as well keep this pretense going for as long as possible.
Jack's soft, rough voice calls out to me. "So this is how it's gonna be then?"
I turn another page just for good measure. What did he expect me to do? Jump for joy at the sight of him and throw my arms around him? Part of me is chomping at the bit to tell him off for treating me like a second-class citizen, but the other part of me knows he isn't wrong to feel the way he does. This push and pull between us is exhausting and he's only been sitting here for less than two minutes.
"What the hell are you reading anyway?" he tries again, gesturing toward me. "Is that a
library
book?"
My lips dip into a frown before I can stop them and I have to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from engaging, but unfortunately for me, it doesn't last.
"Some people still like to read actual books, you know," I mutter through gritted teeth.
You insult my library book and the claws come out. So much for best laid plans.
He just shrugs, seemingly satisfied with the little he's gotten from me. There's no point in even attempting to explain that holding the book in my hands just feels more real. More authentic. And turning the pages, instead of just swiping my fingers across a screen, feels like I'm actually accomplishing something. I'm also not going to bother explaining what it's like wandering the aisles of the Boston Public Library or lounging on one of the marble blocks surrounding the courtyard in the library or killing time in the first bookstore I can find just because I can. There's something about surrounding myself with books and the stories inside them that frees me—it's the escape I love. The ability to live in some other person's world for a little while so I don't have to face my own.
I wouldn't expect Jack Flynn to understand.
So, here we sit, side by side as we wait for our turn to enter the visitation room. What a convoluted, unhappy pair we make.
Soon enough, though, a guard motions for us and I stand up from that squeaky chair on shaky legs. For the first time since he sat down, I let myself take one good look and I have to do a double-take at what I find. His bottom lip is split open, purple bruising is dotted around his right eye, and there's a jagged, nasty slash right across his cheek. I guess I shouldn't be surprised—after all, it's Sunday and he probably fought Friday
and
Saturday, but seeing the aftermath firsthand is jarring.
Maybe he never loses, but he sure takes a few hits doing it.
Why am I spending any time thinking about this jerk? I've got bigger things to worry about, namely the fact that I'm crossing the threshold into the visitation room.
There's no going back now. No place I can run and hide. That's the thing about the truth—sooner or later, you have to look it in the eye.
My heart thuds in a staccato rhythm as I drop into yet another chair, but this time, Jack and I are sitting at a table surrounded by other tables filled with people doing the exact same thing we are. My ribs coil in my chest, squeezing so tightly I think it might combust altogether. There's no point in even trying to breathe because my lungs have closed for business. Every synapse fills with electricity, boiling over and making my legs twitch underneath the table.
And when our visitor arrives, I think I feel it before I see it. Even beaten down by years spent in prison, Sean Callahan shares the same easy, confident swagger as his brothers. His light brown hair is buzzed close to his head and his physique falls somewhere in between Jack's hulking mass and Brennan's definition. But it's his eyes that I can't look away from. It's his eyes, the same ones I remember seeing so clearly, that haunt me.
Blue eyes. Light and crisp, but there's no ice to be found in them. Instead, they soften when he spots our table and his lips curve into a faint smile I just can't reconcile.
I don't know what I expected, but it definitely wasn't this.
Jack pushes up to his feet as his brother approaches and I helplessly follow his lead, rubbing my hands against my jeans because I just don't know what else to do with them. They embrace and release each other just as quickly, each brother taking their respective sides on the table while I stand by like an idiot.
Now Sean turns his searing blue gaze on me and gestures to the chair next to Jack. "Why don't you have a seat?"
I've spent the last two weeks imagining this moment—what I would say, how he might respond, what could happen afterward...and now that it's here, I freeze. I'm standing here in front of this man, this handsome, good-natured, and generous man, and I've stolen his life. He was 22 when I sent him to prison and he'll be lucky if he can put together a normal life by the time he gets out. The orange jumpsuit, the weathered, old-beyond-his-years features, the heaviness surrounding him...I did all of that.