Chapter 9
Nine
HARLEY
I’ve become friends with one of the guards.
He’s not supposed to, but he slips me extra paper and gives me more time to write.
It’s the only reason I can sit here with pen in hand, trying to make these words reach you.
I don’t have a cellmate yet, and for that I’m grateful.
I’ll never forget the fear from last time forcing me to sleep with one eye open, silently waiting for something to happen in the dark.
Here, at least, I can close my eyes for a few hours without the same weight pressing down on me.
I don’t know how to write about the baby.
Every time I try, the words catch in my throat.
What I really want is to hold you, to press my hand against your stomach, to whisper to our child that I’ll never let anything hurt them.
I want to kiss you until all the fear leaves your eyes.
I want to walk through the front door of a little house with you, paint the walls, build the crib, argue over names and then laugh about it later.
But I can’t do any of that from here. Not yet.
So, I need you to be strong for both of us. Strong for all three of us. Rick swears he’s working on getting me out, and I want to believe him. I have to believe him, because if I don’t, I’ll lose the only thing keeping me steady right now.
I’m glad you have Kennedy. I hate that I’m not the one holding your hand at the doctor’s office, that I wasn’t there when you first heard the heartbeat.
God, Harley, I would have given anything be in that room with you, to see your face when you realized you weren’t alone in your body anymore.
I can only picture it in my head, and the picture kills me.
I am so sorry for putting you in this position.
Sorry feels too small, but it’s the only word I have.
I promised you I wouldn’t leave. I promised I’d be better.
And here I am, behind bars again, proving your parents right, proving the world right, and breaking the one promise that mattered most. I hate myself for it.
I also keep thinking about the night you broke down in the car after I met your parents for the first time, the way I held you and swore I’d never go anywhere.
That promise plays in my head like a broken record, reminding me of every way I failed you.
But then I remember your strength at that dinner table, the way you finally stood up to them, the way you’ve carried us both even when I gave you every reason to give up.
And I realize … maybe I didn’t break everything after all.
You’re still here. You’re still writing me. You’re still fighting.
I get phone privileges once a week. I don’t know if you’ll answer.
I don’t know if hearing my voice will hurt more than help.
I would give anything just to hear you breathe on the other end.
To know you haven’t closed the door completely.
Even if you can’t forgive me right now, even if you’re still angry, please don’t shut me out.
I don’t know how much I can ask of you, not when I’ve already asked for more than you should ever have to give.
But if you can, hold onto the picture of us outside these walls.
Hold onto the house, the baby, the future we talked about in whispers at night when the world was quiet.
That dream is what’s keeping me alive in here.
I love you, Harley. More than freedom. More than myself. More than every mistake I’ve made. I love you in a way that makes these walls feel smaller, because I know they can’t hold that love back forever.
Do you think it’s a girl or a boy? We never spoke about how many kids we wanted, if we even wanted kids at all.
I would be happy with a little girl or boy with your beautiful eyes.
Maybe to pass the time we can start thinking of names?
Are you going to find out the gender, or is it going to be a surprise?
Always,
Easton