13. Azalea
13
Azalea
All day long, I’d been pretending.
From the moment I got to my desk, I threw myself into my work, checking on my other clients and making sure they were on track.
Josh, my arsonist, was right on target with his therapy, and that was all due to my constant reminders. He told me that himself. He seemed surprised when he told me the sessions were actually helping him. It was the happiest I felt all day.
I popped up on Willie, one of my dealers, at his warehouse job. Over the loud hum of bustling workers and the beeping of forklifts, we had a pleasant conversation about his future. He actually had an actionable goal of ascending in the company. We discussed strategies to get him there, and it felt promising. I’d have to stay on him, though. Dealers typically know the good life before they hit rock bottom. Willie worked a respectable warehouse job, but going from wads of cash every day to a meager paycheck every two weeks was a big challenge.
I spent the rest of my day mired in paperwork. I was slightly behind on my field reports, so I ate lunch at my desk, writing up the details of client meetings while munching on a grilled chicken salad with grapes on the side. My appetite hadn’t been that great over the last couple of days, but I managed to finish half of it.
But I was feeling good. Productive.
I managed to get to the end of my workday, 7:38 pm to be exact, before I stopped pretending.
I finally let myself acknowledge that I was sick to my stomach at the thought of Mr. Jackson sitting in a cell. For a whole month.
My chest tightened as I sat in the stillness of the moment realizing I’d been lying to myself. The truth emerged from the shadows and laid itself bare to me.
None of my interactions with my other clients were as fulfilling for me as my interactions with Mr. Jackson, and I didn’t have as much concern for them as I did for him.
It was shameful, but I had to admit it to myself.
I felt more for him than I realized.
It took me a minute to force my fingers into cooperation, then another full minute to force myself to take a look. Shaky hands, blurry eyes, and cloudy thoughts…it was so uncomfortable. So unethical.
Isaac Lamar Jackson.
I didn’t even have to recall his full name. It had been resting comfortably in my head ever since I saw him in his brother’s office the first day we met.
I typed the letters and waited, trembling as I read the words in front of me.
Remanded to the Summerville correctional facility for thirty days.
The sight of it drained the oxygen from my lungs. Which was ridiculous, because I was the one who put him there.
I was all big and bad when I did it, but also hopeful that something good would come out of it. I forced myself to keep my voice neutral when I called to tell him, but I was anything but. My hands were shaking, my throat was dry, my eyes were burning. But I did what needed to be done, all while pretending it was the right thing to do.
But I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Instead of letting Amina hype me up, I should have trusted my gut. It had always steered in the right direction, even when I didn’t heed it.
My gut told me about Rome long before I left. The body is an oracle, whispering the truth to you in the beats of your heart, the pains in your joints, the fog in your brain. But I excused it all away. I was the dog-in-a-fire meme, telling myself it was fine that he treated me so nice in public but barely spoke to me at home, or that the only time he was happy was when he was posing us for a picture to post on social media. If I had listened to my gut’s whispers, I wouldn’t have had to suffer through Roman’s yells.
With Mr. Jackson, it told me there was a good man in there. One who didn’t trust me because I hadn’t earned it yet. One who was chafed raw by a system that doesn’t respect men like him when they’re upstanding, much less when they’ve made mistakes.
By the time I got home, I was wrung out and ready to get into bed and pull the covers over my head. Pinky and Brownie had other ideas about the trajectory of my night, however.
Once they were fed, walked, and tucked into bed, I dragged myself into the shower and tried to give myself the same energy.
Fresh out of the shower, I stared at my lotion shelf and decided to take a raincheck, dooming myself to early morning ashiness.
I didn’t care.
Because I knew Mr. Jackson had it a lot worse than I did.
That thought sat on my mind, heavy as a boulder, until I drifted off to sleep.