Chapter 1 #2
One by one, she calls our names, and I end up the third in line behind a tall, slender man whose legs keep jiggling in his white trousers.
I’d think he was just as nervous about interacting with a bunch of strangers as I am, but when he signs his paperwork with a flourish and beams at Rosario’s bored face, just like the woman ahead of him did, I figure whoever he gets partnered up with will be lucky to have such an enthusiastic dance partner.
When he’s let in next, and the heavy metal door shuts with a clang before I can see inside, Rosario shoves her pen in my hand and holds the clipboard flat.
She quickly directs me to each X that I need to sign or initial without giving me a chance to read through what I assume is a waiver before I can attend the dance.
Then she does so again on a second, identical copy.
All I catch is the expected “agree to”, “release of liability”, and “I certify” before Rosario hands the papers I signed to an unseen guard on the other side of the door when it reopens.
My knees knock together when Rosario pushes me into motion solely by her huff of impatience.
This situation keeps getting stranger. Instead of a dance hall, or at least a decorated cafeteria like my high school homecoming dances, I’m left standing in an even tinier room with yet another two guarded doors, not even a window this time, while a bald man sits behind a metal desk loaded with more paperwork.
Wordlessly, my guard hands my papers to the bald man.
“Name,” the bald man says, only flashing me a glare while scribbling his signature.
I shift in my heels. There sure is a lot more red tape just to get to the dance than there had been when I was visiting my dad. “Um, it’s—”
“Name,” he says louder in a brisk tone, splitting my paperwork between two separate stacks.
“Mirabeth Perkins.”
He talks so fast, I wonder if he’d be more suited to a career as an auctioneer.
I can’t understand a word he’s saying. When he nods to the guard at the back door, a gorgeous man in a hideous beige jumpsuit is led inside, his large hands shackled in front by a short chain connecting the cuffs around his wrists.
The inmate is big. That’s the first thing I notice.
Also, the second. And the third. Big everywhere and taller than all the guards.
His biceps are as large around as my lower thighs, and they threaten to split the sleeves of his tight jumpsuit.
His thick, dark hair is combed back on his aggressively handsome face, having surprisingly been allowed to grow out his beard, which is shot through with red.
The inmate doesn’t spare me a second glance when he shuffles on equally hideous canvas shoes that look too small for his feet, and he signs his name at the bottom of both stacks as the bald guy continues talking faster than I can process.
The bald guy grunts and motions me closer to the desk beside the prisoner, and it’s then that he stamps the top sheets of each stack like a judge does a gavel on his desk, making me jump.
He mutters, “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. O’Byrne.
” To me, he says, “You’ll receive your certificate and new social security card in the mail. ”
I turn to ice. “What?”
“Next!” the bald guy calls out, handing me one of the stacks, and the third guard bodily moves me out the side door into…an exit? The inmate is hustled out next before the door slams shut behind him with a resounding clang.
I stare at my stack of papers, stamped with an official Texas state seal, as the inmate’s cuffs are removed, and he’s directed toward what looks like a receptionist’s desk.
It’s enclosed by bulletproof glass with an opening large enough for the short, plump guard behind the counter to slide a large brown paper bag through.
“Wait…” I try to suck in a breath but can’t find any air as the inmate strips out of his jumpsuit in my periphery and pulls on a pair of light-wash jeans and a faded black T-shirt that were in the bag, both of which are way too small for him.
With dawning horror, I finally read the license that says I certify that I’m here of my own free will and I agree to marry a Mr. Conrad O’Byrne. “It says…oh my…”
No wonder everyone was wearing white and those volunteers left.
I muscle the inmate aside and slap the paperwork down on the metal counter. “I thought this was a dance!” I yell hysterically at the guard with strikingly white, shoulder-length curls.
Sliding a plastic bin with a wallet, keys, and a wristwatch across the counter to my silent husband while he shoves his feet into worn, black work boots, the guard snorts and asks, “What dance?”
“My mom told me the prison was hosting a dance—some kind of new outreach program to bring the inmates joy!” Why is it only now that I hear how stupid that sounds? “I didn’t know I was volunteering to marry some random stranger!”
“Ha! I’m sure you’ll be giving plenty of joy to O’Byrne here.” Then, as if something clicks, the guard’s red lips part with a sly smile as she studies my face. “You’re Nurse Perkins’s daughter, right?”
“Yes,” I whine, feeling dizzy, my knees wanting to buckle beneath me.
“She told me she was waiting on some grandbabies. Should’ve known she’d put you up to something like this. You two will make some mighty cute babies,” she says, flicking her gaze back and forth between the inmate and me.
I heave in the thick air and yell, “I’m only twenty-three, and he’s, like, super old!”
“I’m thirty-seven,” the inmate says with a scoff under his breath, his voice so deep that it almost rattles my bones.
“I had a toddler and a baby on the way when I was your age,” the guard says unconcerned, and she shoos me with her hand toward the exit door. “I’ve got more than twenty of these to get through. Tell your mom I said hi, Mrs. O’Byrne.”
I glance at the inmate, who slides his black baseball cap with a frayed brim backwards on his head, somehow even hotter now and way out of my league. Why on earth would he ever agree to this? Was he tricked into it too?
He finally decides to grace me with his green-eyed, intense stare that scares the daylights out of me, looking at me like he can see right into my soul and finds it pitiful, his lips thinned and pressed tightly together.
With a gasp, I bolt, leaving behind the marriage agreement that includes links to helpful articles such as How to Help Your Felon Feel at Home and What to Expect When You’re Expecting a Felon’s Baby.