Be Mine (Twisted Holidays #4)

Chapter 1 Cade

ONE

CADE

Obsession.

The dictionary defines the term as an idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person’s mind.

The concept of obsession has never held much of my consideration since I prefer to take what I want when I want it, well before it reaches an obsessive—some may even argue unhealthy—level.

That’s how I ended up in my current predicament with three stone walls and a row of metal bars to call my own.

But today when those bars open, there will be something good waiting for me on the other side. Someone good.

Today, I’ll finally get to meet the woman who’s been preoccupying my mind the past few weeks. It’s not quite an obsession, but a deep-rooted sensation—a tug in my gut—suggests that’s about to change.

After nine years of sitting in prison, bored out of my ever-living fucking mind, I signed up for the pen pal program the warden’s constantly pushing.

It’s a dumb concept, and I said as much when he first harassed me about it.

My feelings didn’t change, but I was intrigued enough to finally end my boredom.

My opinion shifted around the time her first letter was delivered.

Then came her second.

And her third.

Months later, I reread them almost every free minute of my day—which is often, since I have plenty of time doing absolutely fucking nothing in this place.

They remain concealed beneath my pillow during guards’ walk-arounds, because I’ll be damned before giving them any more ammunition—something they can take away when the need to lord their authority over me strikes.

If only they knew what real power felt like. The tattoo on my left inner wrist is a symbol of the power I once held before stupidity stole it. A lesson learned and not to be repeated because stupidity will not take her letters from me. Any asshole who attempts to try can kiss their life goodbye.

What’s that say about my feelings for a woman I’ve never met?

My soul met her, though, as fucked up as that may sound. In only five letters, she’s wormed her way into being something to me. Hopefully today will give me an idea of what exactly that is.

In the hour before visitation, all her letters are spread out on my cot. They’ve been folded and unfolded so many times; I may need to trade for tape soon to keep them intact. Without them, this place will get a whole lot lonelier. I won’t handle not having them to keep me going.

Our pen pal match was chosen by the program’s directors, so how or why this woman got paired with me, I’ll never know, but it’s probably the one good fucking thing that’s happened to me in this place.

She’s mine now, and that’s all there is to it.

As part of my daily routine, I reread them, my finger tracing the places her pen dug in a bit harder or where the letters connect from one word to the next, like she was on a roll and couldn’t slow her thoughts.

I like that. It means she was confident in what she wanted to say and did so without hesitation, almost like she’s as consumed with me as I am with her.

The first letter was delivered in the middle of September, a few weeks after I signed up for the program.

Hi Cade,

It’s good to “meet” you. Hopefully, this letter brings you some enjoyment. I’m going to pre-apologize if I write something out of line. Ignore anything you don’t want to answer. I won’t be offended. I promise.

It’s weird writing to a stranger, but if we’re going to make this work, it means jumping right into it, don’t you think?

My name is Aspen. I’m twenty-four. I live in Ottawa and work at a flower shop.

I have a one-eyed cat named Millie, who I adopted from a shelter two years ago.

For fun, I watch movies and do puzzles—nothing exciting.

Hmmm…what else? My favourite colour is emerald green.

I know, pretty specific, but there are too many greens to just say “green.”

Tell me about you. Fair’s fair.

Your pen pal,

Aspen

That first letter made me smile for the first time in years.

It made me consider a colour that isn’t grey and hobbies that aren’t counting to one thousand over and over.

It made me think about pets and the kind of company they provide—something I’m sorely lacking, despite the numerous men in my cell block.

Her confidence stuck with me—the way she launched into speaking to an incarcerated prisoner without hesitation. It made me hate her directness while wondering how many other men had gotten her attention like this—and then that pissed me off for different reasons.

Then, there’s her age. Twenty-four. Her innocence seeps from the pages. Fuck, she literally has no idea who’s on the receiving end of her letter.

I set that one to the side and pick up the others. Her second answered everything my first reply and introduction probed about.

Happy October!

You’re a funny guy in real life, aren’t you?

I’ll keep the apparent lack of ability to offend in mind.

I’m glad the last letter made you smile, and I’m not nervous.

Okay, maybe I was a little bit, but once your letter came, even before reading it, I felt better.

Guess the anxiety was more about if you’d reply or if I wrote to a stranger for nothing.

Would it be mean to ask if the prison does anything for Halloween? I hope they do. It’s a pretty fantastic holiday.

You asked why my cat’s name is Millie. She’s named after my late grandmother, who was blind in the years prior to her passing. When I adopted Millie, being one-eyed, it felt appropriate to honour her.

You asked why a florist. Why not a florist? I gardened a lot with my mom growing up and loved it. Besides, I’m also doing my master’s degree in psychology, and it’s an easy part-time job to pay the bills.

You asked why Ottawa. It’s where I was born and raised. You’re only a few hours away. (I researched the prison before sending the first letter.)

And you asked why green. Maybe it goes along with my gardening hobby. Can’t give a better answer. Something about the boldness of it makes me cheerful.

Can I ask what your days look like? I’m very curious because the program staff didn’t give much information.

Cheers,

Aspen

I realized after that one, she could ask me why I got locked up and I’d give her truth, if only for her reply. Her curiosity, her directness—I adore it all.

My thumb brushes over some of her details. Ottawa, born and raised. I, too, was born and raised in Ottawa. To think, I’d been living my entire life within the same city as my growing fascination.

I began designing images of her when penning my response, answering her questions about my days without providing extra information.

I’d rather learn about her than write about myself.

Admitting what my days are like when hers are probably replete with entertainment, friends, and an actual purpose burned my chest, but someone asking about me made it a bit better.

So, I sent the letter off and paced my cell for the couple weeks it took for her reply to get delivered.

Cade,

Happy November! It’s freezing out, and I’m not a fan. I’m sorry your days are so repetitious, but hopefully, these letters provide some comfort. I hope you’re not bullshitting me by claiming they do.

You’re very curious, but to answer your question as to why psych, the mind has always fascinated me. People’s reasons for doing and saying the things they do all stem from somewhere, and I like learning what that is.

As for my favourite flower: that’d be a calla lily. Do you have a favourite flower?

What did you used to do for fun?

When you’re out, what’s the first thing you want to do? (Is that bad to ask? You did say anything!)

What’s your favourite colour?

Which kind of candy/chocolate do you enjoy?

You mentioned reading a lot. Anything interesting I might know? Admittingly, I’m not much of a reader, but please, talk away. Tell me about your favourite book, and I promise to try to read every word of it.

Your pen pal,

Aspen

She hooked me with that one. Her little probes revealed she genuinely cares. Her energy pours from her words, and I picture her bent over a table, furiously scribbling on the paper.

I wonder what her professors would label me as if they knew precisely what her letters have changed within this six-by-six-foot cell.

It was her final paragraph, though, about trying out my favourite book even when she hates reading, that reaffirmed this woman’s fucking perfect. So I penned what’s probably the longest piece of writing in my entire goddamn life.

And then, I attached a question to it, aware of the very real possibility it would chase her away.

Happy December! Almost a new year.

I can feel your passion for 1984 in your writing. It’s the longest letter you’ve sent me (no complaints), and I immediately borrowed the book from the library. Your summary and excitement are contagious, so we’ll see how it goes. Noting that…it’s fairly thick, so no promises.

No favourite flower or plant? Hm. Not sure we should keep talking. (Kidding.)

A motorbike sounds cool. I’ve never been on one, though I’d like to one day.

Your favourite colour being red is a surprise. I half expected black.

I had a nightmare last night. It was about wandering the streets alone, and then the ground crumpled from beneath me and I was drowning in icy water. Weird, right? Sometimes I wish I went into dream psychology.

Do you dream? Are they mostly good or bad?

If I don’t get to send you another letter beforehand, Merry Christmas, Cade. I hope it’s as good as you’re able to make it. I promise to be thinking about you.

Aspen.

P.S. Let me think about your photo request. I feel like that would take this to an entirely new place.

Yeah, I asked for a photo because I’m a greedy fucker who’s dying to know.

The final letter was delivered earlier in the week:

Cade,

Maybe I’m insane. Maybe a picture would have been better than what I’m about to offer, but I got thinking about an in-person visit instead. Turns out, the prison has visitation days every Thursday…though you probably know that.

What about if I stop by and we meet for real? I realize it might be taking the pen pal thing too far, especially when I was the one initially nervous by even sending a photo. I’ll understand if you don’t want to meet in real life. Just let me know.

Also, maybe you’re sleeping too deeply and that’s why you’re not recalling your dreams. Or maybe you have nothing good right now to dream about.

And yes, I started 1984. Made it twenty pages in.

Aspen

It’s downright fucking hilarious that she thought I wouldn’t want to meet her.

Just her letter has had me on edge all week in anticipation of visitation day.

No one comes to see me because the only people who care enough live by a code that dictates never willingly walking into a place they’d be possibly unable to leave.

The marks on our wrists that link us would be a signal to the people running this place, and while no one can be arrested on mere suspicion charges, they’d definitely be keeping tabs on my guys afterwards.

It’s safer for them to stay away until my time’s up.

It’s appropriate that my budding obsession will become such a monumental moment in my prison experience—my first visitor.

Abandoning the letters for a moment, I pace to the metal bars of my cell. Confinement stopped being annoying years ago. It’s more bothersome than anything because it keeps me from the world. From hopping on my bike and going wherever I want.

My hands wrap around the cool metal, and I squint to see the clock on the wall. After my first week here, time became unimportant. As long as one day eventually merged with the next, I didn’t give a fuck what day a calendar claimed it to be.

With visiting hours approaching, the clock’s arms ticking away makes me feel something for the first time in a long time…

Intrigued.