Chapter 13
It’s as though everything in Sheridan was designed to break me.
The constant noises during the day and the loud ventilation system at night never allowed me a moment of rest, even in the SHU.
The coarse fabric of our uniforms left me feeling chafed, as if my skin was ripped from me, peel by peel, day by day, leaving nothing but hypersensitive flesh.
The tense social interactions never had me at ease, always questioning everyone’s motives, guards and inmates alike.
Months of this have put me on edge, my nerve endings on fire, my brain cells in agony, desperate for respite.
As the hidden door closes behind me, isolating me in the secret room, I experience silence for the first time since the arrest. The faint vibration of the server behind its double-glass partition is there, but nothing compared to what I’ve been going through.
I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, hold it, and then release. I didn’t want to blow up at Andrea like I did, but her pigheadedness got the better of my emotions.
Her actions, as well-intentioned as they might have been, are a betrayal.
She knew. She had to. She knew it would break me to imagine her risking her life for mine.
She knew I’d endure the implication in helpless anguish, unable to do anything to stop her.
I considered calling my lawyers to have them cut the power in my apartment.
But knowing her, she would have gathered my hard drives and whatever she needed, and continued from her place, taking even more risks.
So, I waited, watching the news every day from the common room, worried sick I’d see a mugshot of her appearing in the top right corner of some news program.
My torment worsened by the day, and seeing she’d done it, seeing the world fall into a frenzy over the new “Nammota” hit didn’t alleviate any of it.
She isn’t safe from repercussions. Not yet. A single mistake in her plan and it’s all over for her. And there’s no fucking way she made none. Not in only five weeks of learning that new skill. Not at the scale she did it.
When I’m calm enough and the rage that bloomed in my chest has turned to a small ball under my ribs, I open my eyes again. I pull the chair and sit before powering on the computer. As it boots, my eyes wander to the mess she left on the desk, like her true self.
There are empty mugs, candy bar wrappers, crumbs, and a couple of plates piled up, with two uneaten pizza crusts drying on top of them.
Of all the women out there, she’s the one I ended up belonging to, and in moments like these, I almost question why.
Sighing, I pull the bin from under the desk.
I slide the dishes to the far end of it, out of my sight, and swipe the crumbs into the bin, as well as the wrappers and the pizza crusts.
As I clean, I notice something else sitting on the desk. The ring Maria Carmen gave me. The one I was meant to give to Andrea once we were ready for the next stage of our life together. I stare at it, questioning its necessity.
Is this life still possible for us? Have we reached a point of no return? I can’t see it happening. Not anymore. Not right now.
If anything, this proved we’re dangerous for one another.
She’d risk her life for mine, just like I’d risk mine for hers.
That kind of senseless devotion is wrong, isn’t it?
We should bring security to one another, not potential pitfalls.
Such boundless love feels like a curse more than a blessing, like we’d race each other to hell in its name.
I pick up the box with the ring in it, close it, and set it aside with the plates and cups. This isn’t right for now. This might never be right again.
My brain isn’t as acute as it used to be, and getting into the scripts I open is harder than it should be. I’ve been doing my best to keep myself busy, but aside from programming in my mind, there wasn’t much I could do to make up for the lack of mental stimulation.
I last a few hours, going through Andrea’s work, before the emptiness of my stomach becomes too distracting. Reluctantly, I stand and ask Iris to open the door. With one hand, I hold the plates, with the other, the mugs, and I exit the hidden room.
Andrea is on the couch, doing something on her phone while mindlessly nibbling on her thumbnail. When she sees me, her eyes widen.
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, I forgot to clean up in there.” She winces, jumping to her feet.
I don’t answer, heading to the kitchen. She follows me to the sink, and before I can handle it, she pushes me away, pressing the side of her body against mine. “I’ll do it,” she insists.
There’s been enough fighting for today, so I don’t argue. I step aside and watch as she rinses everything and organizes it in the dishwasher. She’s wearing the red dress she wore during our first official date. It doesn’t fit her as well as it used to, loose around her chest and middle.
She’s lost weight. Too much of it. The curve of her hips isn’t as pronounced as it used to be, and the roundness of her behind … well, it’s more humble than it was. Her face also looks changed, less youthful, with her cheeks hollower and laced with fatigue. What happened to my feral raccoon?
On the counter, there are all sorts of dishes still in their containers. The sight awakens my hunger, my stomach grumbling with need. I pick up a few dishes, whatever looks most appetizing, and grab a fork and knife from the drawer.
“Eat something,” I command. Clearly, she needs it more than I do. Now that I’m out, she’ll hopefully start eating normally again.
I don’t stay to make sure she complies, don’t even turn around to see if she acknowledges my words.
Because I don’t want to do this again for a while, I drop everything on the hidden room’s desk and then detour to the bathroom.
Between that and all the food I took, I should last at least eight hours before needing to come out.
I spend it all looking at what she did, searching for cracks in her plan or flaws in her scripts.
She used one of my old ideas—the one I never got to bring to life—and adjusted it, making its meaning sharper, more accurate to the situation we found ourselves in.
Exposing the involvement of those twenty-five names with crooked officials of the DOJ was a stroke of genius on her part.
I’m not even surprised she found that kind of dirt on them, because this is what they do.
They think themselves above the law, and nearly every single time, they’re proved right.
It’s nearing midnight when I decide to stop. I’m clearly too tired to find the mistakes Andrea might have made. That’s why I haven’t gotten any so far. Tomorrow, after a night of rest, I’ll start over.
I pass a hand over my face, as if I could wipe the tiredness away.
Upon feeling my beard, I realize I need to take care of it.
The cheap razors in Sheridan caused burns and irritations, so after the second ingrown hair, I gave up using them entirely.
Now that I’m home, though, I can use my electric razor again.
Making a mental note to take care of it at some point, I turn the computer off and push the chair back.
When I come out, Andrea is still on the couch, watching a movie or a show on her laptop. She’s changed into a pair of sweatpants and one of my T-shirts, has removed her makeup, and tied her hair up. She doesn’t see me straight away because of the darkness of the room, focused on her screen.
When I come closer, though, on my way to throw the empty containers in the trash, she notices me.
“Hey,” she greets me with a small smile, pulling out her earphones and closing her laptop to settle it on the couch.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. I had a couple of spring rolls. If you need anything, I put it all in the fridge.”
“You need to eat more.”
“I’m not hungry.”
I meet her gaze for the first time since our argument. “You have to eat, Andrea.”
My insistence seems to irk her, brown eyes squinting with annoyance. “I ate, Alexander.”
It seems we’ll fight again today, because the tight ball in my chest expands. Before we can get there, she says, “I was waiting for you to come out to go to bed. So, good night, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she explains, standing up from the couch.
With that, she turns around, head high, and walks up the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I watch until she disappears, and then mumble to myself, “This fucking woman …”
I don’t feel like sleeping yet. I’m still wound up like a clock, so I wouldn’t fall asleep, anyway.
So, I head to the home gym, and there, I pull out the bag with my swimming equipment.
Deciding I’ll change up there, I leave the apartment with a key and head to the staircase.
Five floors later, I’m at the building’s gym—which I never use. The pool, though …
There’s no one at this time of night, so I don’t put my bag in my locker once I’ve changed. After a mandatory shower, I head to the pool with my goggles in hand. The glasshouse is warm all year long, like the water, but gets slightly colder during the winter months—never enough to deter me.
As soon as I dive, I realize how much I’ve missed swimming. I used to do it every single day to decompress, for at least half an hour. Meeting Andrea threw a wrench in my neatly organized schedule, but I found other, more pleasurable ways to decompress with her. For now, swimming is my only option.
I don’t count the laps, doing it until my muscles ache from the effort. I exercised daily in Sheridan, but it was a different kind of ache. It didn’t feel as satiating.