Chapter 5
RAUL
…present day
"Mail!" a guard barks from the walkway.
The facility is still half-stuck in the transition to electronic mail, so everything gets delayed. Most of the letters are three or four days behind by the time they make it to us. The guard stops at our block and glances down the line. "Alvarez."
He holds out a folded letter through the bars.
"Anything for me?" Carl leans in, trying to see over my shoulder.
"Not today, Brenner," the guard snaps without even looking at him.
I take the letter and flip it over, checking the return address before I even let myself look at the name. Diego's been writing me almost every day since I got here, so I expect his name. But this isn't from him.
Olivia.
My stomach drops.
Just seeing her name is enough to make my skin tighten. My hands go damp, and a line of sweat starts at the back of my neck like somebody turned the heat up inside me.
"Is that your girl?" Carl asks, still craning to get a look.
"I don't know, man. It's complicated."
"You wanna talk about it?"
"Nah. Mind your business." I tuck the letter against my chest for a second before sliding it into my notebook, where I can keep it from getting damaged or lifted. In here, anything personal is currency. Letters get read, stolen, traded, or used to make a point. I'm not taking chances.
I inhale once, slow, and I can still catch the faint smell of her on the paper. Sweet coconut, soft and clean, like it doesn't belong in a place like this.
I wasn't expecting to hear from her. Not after what I did. Not after what I said.
Carl throws his hands up. "Alright, damn. I'm still waiting on my girl to write me back."
"Yeah?" I say, but my attention is still locked on Olivia's name.
Carl snorts and leans back against the wall like he's got all day. "Yeah. I wrote her a whole damn letter too. Took me forever. Had to cross out half of it because it sounded stupid."
I huff a short laugh, though my grip on the envelope doesn't loosen. "That's because it probably was stupid."
"Man, shut up." He bumps my shoulder with his. "You ever gonna open that thing or just stare at it till transfer?"
I glance down at the folded paper, then slip it deeper into my notebook like I'm hiding contraband. Maybe I am. A letter from Olivia feels dangerous in a way commissary never could.
Letters in here don't just mean somebody remembered you.
They mean somebody took the time to choose you.
Wrote your name. Folded you up. Trusted the system to carry a piece of them through all these locked doors and hands and searches.
That kind of thing can get you through a week or tear you open for days.
"You want me to read it?" Carl asks, quieter now.
"No." I say it too fast.
He studies me for a second, then lifts both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Damn. Just saying, if some girl wrote me after all this time, I'd be grinning like an idiot."
That hits too close to home.
I look away, down the tier where men are stretched out on their bunks, talking low, playing cards, guarding their own business.
The block hums with that constant, ugly life it keeps whether you're ready for it or not.
Somebody yells over a TV. Somebody else pounds on a locker. A guard's boots echo past the bars.
I should be focused on all of that. On staying out of trouble. On getting through sentencing. On the fact that one wrong move in here can cost you more than your pride.
Instead, all I can think about is Olivia's name sitting in my notebook like a live wire.
"Maybe she just wants an explanation," Carl says.
I glance back at him. He's talking out of his ass, he has no idea what he's talking about. He knows nothing about her or us.
"Or maybe," he adds, shrugging, "she's not done with you yet."
I don't answer right away. My throat feels tight, like even breathing around the possibility is risky. I can't let anything suggest emotion.
Then the loudspeaker crackles overhead, spitting out some half-muffled command about rec time ending early. A few men groan. Somebody curses. The whole block shifts with that familiar prison irritation. Everybody is ready to act like they don't care, while caring too damn much.
I tuck the notebook under my arm and stand.
I'll read the letter. Eventually. But I'm not ready to hear about how much I hurt her. Not yet. Everything is still too raw, too fresh. Opening it would be like throwing salt into a wound that hasn't even started to scar over.