Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thirty-eight
Scarlett
Texting my boyfriend while my dad sits across from me is a dangerous game.
But the anxious feeling that fills my chest isn’t because of Kian, it’s the fact that I’m seeing Victor today.
My visit was randomly approved, and I tried not to think about it as if I’d jinx it.
But I’ve been buzzing with anticipation.
It’s hard to contain myself in front of my parents.
Especially because it’s exam season and no one is happy during this time of year.
When my phone pings again, I pull it out of my pocket.
Kian: You need a ride from your house?
Scarlett: No.
Kian: Ok, no ride. No problem.
Scarlett: Sorry, I mean I’m already getting a ride to go to the library.
Kian: But I’ll see you after practice. Summer’s home, she’ll let you in.
Scarlett: Okay.
Kian insisted on driving me to the prison to visit Victor. I told him he would probably be exhausted after practice, but he didn’t seem to care about that. So after my classes, I’m heading to the hockey house.
“Easy classes today, Rosie?” my dad asks when I put down my phone.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve got an extra pep in your step. And you ate an entire bran muffin. You hate bran.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d done that. The only thing in my head is the call from the prison, and Risa’s “see you soon” that has me wired.
My dad drops me off at Porter’s again, and just like every other time, I go straight to the photo booth, push some coins through the slot, and take my pictures. First visit with Victor.
When I get to Research Methods class, we have a long lecture and my brain is absolutely fried at the end of it.
Sierra: Do you have a shovel I can borrow?
I stare at the text on my phone, unsure if I should laugh or be worried. But when I check the time, I realize my best friend is still at practice, which means there’s only one reason she’d want a shovel. Her boyfriend.
Scarlett: Depends. Will you also be needing an alibi?
Sierra: No. I’ll confess to this one. I’ll be pretty proud of myself if I can pull it off.
Scarlett: Deep breaths, Si. You can’t kill your skating partner this close to finals.
Sierra: No promises.
I head to my last class of the day and am in desperate need of a nap.
I left my lecture with droopy eyes and had to immediately grab a coffee from one of the shops on campus.
If I were to take advice from sophomore-year Scarlett, she’d chug down an eight-hour energy drink and power through her classes, then get her work done on a quiet rampage in the library.
But by the time my sociology professor hands us an in-class assignment for the last half of the lecture, I’m flying through it, handing it in, and practically sprinting to the hockey house.
Summer opens the door for me, smiling big as she cradles her phone between her ear and her shoulder and mouthing “Mom” when she points at her phone. I let her take the call and head to Kian’s room. When I text and ask him if I can take a shower, his response is quick.
Kian: Without me? :(
But by the time I’m finished in the shower, Kian’s already home and sitting at his desk.
The lights in his room are dim, and the curtains are drawn tight, save for a faint sliver of gloomy afternoon sky slipping through the fabric.
A low vinyl crackles in the background, the soft notes blending with the quiet hums from him.
He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but loose, low-slung jeans, and hunched over his notebook, scribbling with that familiar, relentless focus.
“Feeling inspired?” I ask, leaning casually against the bathroom doorframe.
His head lifts, dark strands sticking to his forehead as his eyes flick to me.
I’m swallowed in the oversize T-shirt and boxers he already had laid out for me.
We’re not leaving for another hour so I didn’t wanna sit in my uncomfortable jeans.
His gaze lingers on me for a second before the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Right now? Definitely,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his muscles flexing as he folds his arms across his chest, the curve of his biceps straining beneath his skin.
My eyes trail the veins snaking up his forearms, following the sharp lines and shadows etched across him, until I land on my favorite part, his mouth.
That easy smile he always wears like armor.
There’s art inked across nearly every inch of him, but nothing can pry my gaze from his face.
When I saunter toward him, he twists in his chair, watching me with a mischievous look until I’m close enough that he just grabs me by the waist and pulls me in to straddle his lap.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asks, leaning in until his nose drags along the curve of my neck. He breathes me in like he’s lost my scent and places it carefully back into his memory bank. “You took a while in there.”
“I’m okay. Just nervous,” I whisper, tracing every ridge and dip of muscle. “How’s your mom and Kiyomi?”
He sits straighter, surprised now. As if he’s never thinking about himself when he’s with me. “She’s been kind of sick. It makes the brain fog worse. But it’s fine. She’ll be fine. They both are.”
“It’s okay to be sad sometimes. Doesn’t mean you’ll get stuck there.”
He swallows. “But people have.”
I tilt my head, pressing into him until all he’s able to see is me. My hands come up to cradle his face, gently guiding him to look at me. I sweep his hair back from his forehead, needing a clear view of those warm, chocolate-brown eyes.
“That doesn’t mean you’ll be one of them. I won’t let you.”
He exhales an amused breath. It’s visible right now, that hidden exhaustion behind his irises, the kind I see only when he lets me. I don’t push.
“What are you drawing?”
He pulls back to look at his Moleskine sketchbook, dragging my attention to the page. The dust of his lead pencil is smudged on the sides.
“Thinking of getting a new tattoo. My dad was an artist, so I use a lot of his old sketches. Feels more personal that way.”
“I had no idea. What kind of artist was he?”
“The hidden kind?” he chuckles. “We only found out when Kiyomi cleaned out their house a few years back. She knew how much they’d mean to me, so she sent me all of his books.”
My chest tightens as I watch the memory flicker behind his eyes. He flips through the worn, weathered pages of an old book, its edges frayed, the faded cover stamped with his dad’s initials—K. I. The same as his.
We sift through the pages together, holding up the sketches against the ink etched into his skin now. The tattoos stretch across his body like living fragments of the past, soft skin layered with stories.
He’s a shrine of his father’s dreams, I realize.
“You re-created all of your dad’s sketches?”
“Pretty much. I even tattooed a few of them on myself.” He points to a few on his arm, and they’re surprisingly well-done. They’re small, but knowing he did them makes them so much better.
“That’s really impressive, Kian.” I go back to the one that he drew today. A rush of something washes over me and I press the book into his chest. “I want this one.”
His head rears back. “What?”
“This tattoo. I want you to do it.” I lift my shirt, showing him the blank space on the side of my ribs. “Right here.”
He presses a hand over the skin. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t—you can’t get this.”
I let my shirt fall back in place. “Oh, I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”
“No, I just mean, I’ve never tattooed anyone else before, and never with my own art.”
“I’ll be your first then,” I say, taking his hand and slipping it under the shirt so I can feel his callused palm on my warm skin. “Right here.”
“Yeah?” Kian takes my hand from where it rests in his lap and guides it to the side of his abdomen, his skin warm beneath my palm. “Then you give me the same one. Right here.”
My eyes snap to his, surprise tightening in my chest. “Really? Isn’t having matching tattoos bad luck?”
“Anything you put on my body can only be good.”
He holds me for a while after that, and when he whispers that it’s time to go, I try to prepare as much as I can to finally see Victor.
···
“Anything, Scarlett. You’re thirsty, the vibe is off, your sweater feels itchy. The smallest thing, just call me, okay? Or text. Whatever, and I’ll be there in less than a second,” Kian says, reminding me for the hundredth time that he’ll be outside.
We asked the front desk if he could wait inside, but he needed a preapproved visitor’s pass and he can’t even park his car in the lot without one. There are a lot of rules, and Kian tried to convince the woman for ten minutes, but she didn’t budge. So he parked just down the street.
“Okay, promise. Now, stop stressing. You’re freaking me out.”
He throws up his hands in surrender. “I’m sure it’ll be great,” he says, though the words sound unsure and still shaky like they did when he asked if I was certain about this. He’s worried, and I get that, but I’ve stopped fearing this moment, probably because I’ve imagined it so many times.
With one deep breath, and Kian not letting go of my hand until I have to physically pull it away, I head inside to get my visitor’s badge. The clicking and buzzing with each gate startles me, and I try not to be jittery.
The deeper we go, the more I hear the loud voices, distant but still there, reminding me this is in fact a place for convicted criminals.
My palms are clammy when the guard directs me to a metal chair on the far side of a long table.
Then I see Victor, and it’s like a punch to the sternum.
He’s a lot thinner than he was seven years ago, and he’s got way more tattoos than I remember.
It used to just be my mom’s name behind one ear and mine behind the other.
Now it’s neither, covered up by some indecipherable design, with no semblance of what used to be there.
He sits across from me, his eyes watching me so intensely, I squirm a little.
“Hi, I’m Scarlett.” I reach out to shake his hand, but he just stares at me, and not even a second later I’m startled by the loud, booming voices of the guards yelling, “No touching!” and force my hand back to my side. Right. I forgot about that rule.
I sit across from him, my sweater suddenly itchy, Kian’s voice echoing in my head: Text me and I’ll be there.
“How have you been?” I ask first because he seems to be content with just looking.
He smiles, and for a second it feels warm. I’m trying to play it cool, but then his gaze wanders my face. “You’re beautiful, Scarlita.”
My heart squeezes tight at the nickname I haven’t heard in years. He would call me that because I was obsessed with this foreign drama where the main character was named Carlita. He remembers.
“Thank you. I’m so glad you wanted to see me too.”
He nods, then softly asks, “How is your mother?”
I don’t like him asking about her. I want to keep her far, far from this. The mention of her makes me feel guilty about this whole thing.
“Good. Did you know the street we used to live on is all new construction?”
“No,” he simply says, as if to say I’m in prison, what do you think? “Does your mother know you’re here?”
He sounds so much like the dad I knew at this moment that I shake my head and shrink.
“That’s okay. I like having time with you.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “I always thought about having a better relationship after everything.”
“Really?” I can barely clamp down my excitement.
He nods. “I’ve always thought about your testimony. How you were so young that you probably didn’t even know what you were saying.”
I blanch. “What do you mean?”
“I just think that if we had time to think, to talk, we could figure something out.”
“How?”
“You could take back your testimony.”
My nervous smile slips off my face. “What?”
“You won’t do that for your dad?” His eyes sharpen. “I thought this was what you wanted. I read your letters, Scarlett. I want that too. I want to know you. I’m looking at you now and you’ve grown into an adult. I wasn’t there to witness any of it.”
“Of course I do. But I said that under oath, and it was the truth, Da— You know that.” Dad almost slips out of my mouth, and I feel nearly sick from making that mistake. “We could still have this, the visits and conversations—”
He scoffs. “Is that why you’re here? To make yourself feel better for putting your own father behind bars?”
My stomach drops. This isn’t how it is supposed to go. This is all wrong.
“Of course not. I wanted us to have another chance.”
“Yeah?” His voice rises. “You want to sit there and tell me about your shiny new life while I rot in here because of you and your mother? You think I’m going to forget that because you want a father-daughter tea party?”
“That’s not why I’m here.” My hands curl into fists on my lap. “I thought maybe we could start fresh.”
“Fresh?” he sneers. “You want everything without giving up anything. Your testimony was wrong. Unfair. You were a kid—you didn’t know what my marriage with your mother was like. You only know what she told you.”
“I saw you—”
“You didn’t see anything. You just listened to her.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t that young. And you know it. Please don’t do this,” I beg. “I’ve been trying to reach you for so long. I finally have and I want to know how you are.”
“I’m in prison.” His voice hardens. “That’s how I am.”
“For something you did,” I snap. “But despite all of that, I still don’t hate you.”
He leans back, eyes narrowing to slits. “That’s too bad, because I do.”
A hand reaches in, prying my heart from between my ribs, and discards it onto the dirty linoleum.
I can’t breathe.