2. Chapter 2
Addy
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!”
The smell of burnt toast, mingled with the cinnamon and vanilla scent of the candle I had lit, assaulted my nostrils in the worst possible way. I scrunched up my nose as I pulled the blackened slice of bread out of the toaster.
“SHIT!”
Letting go of said toast just as quickly as I had pulled it out of the kitchen appliance, I watched it, with wide eyes, soar through the room in an almost comical high arc. It landed next to a stack of dirty plates with a dull thud, and I shook my hand, trying to ease the sting of the burn.
“Great. Just great,” I muttered, inspecting my fingertips.
After recovering the bread, I scraped off the burnt bits with a butter knife and spread some peanut butter on it. Chewing furiously — because, once again, I’d forgotten to eat for over twelve hours — I let my eyes wander over the disastrous state of my kitchen.
Ever since my dishwasher had broken two weeks ago with a pitiful glug, there’d been even more disarray in here than usual. I hated washing dishes. Everything about it made me shudder in disgust.
From the water being either scorching, melt-your-skin-off hot or lukewarm (seriously, why was there never an in-between?!), to the crippling anxiety of touching something soggy lurking at the bottom of this pit of hell, just waiting to attack you.
I wasn’t a fan of disposable plates and cutlery — was there a bigger waste of money? — but this appliance crisis had me on the verge of making an exception.
I avoided looking in the direction of the kitchen table, where my laptop was still open, the unfinished graphic design project glaring accusingly back at me.
My gaze shifted to the counter, where I’d carelessly thrown the mail yesterday after returning home from pet-sitting Gertrude, a golden doodle. On top of the scattered envelopes sat an overdue notice for my phone bill.
I guess hoping they’d forget about the unpaid balance was too much to ask.
My chewing slowed as I fixated on a different, unassuming and unfamiliar envelope that caught my attention. Hadn’t I seen one of these before?
Holding the peanut butter toast between my teeth, I brushed the crumbs off my hands and snatched the envelope from underneath.
It couldn’t be…
My eyes widened slightly as I traced the scrawled lines on the front before flicking to the printed text in the top corner.
Blackwood Correctional Facility
Georgia
Well, fuck me sideways. I didn’t think he’d write back.
Surprisingly enough, I detected a faint flutter of excitement inside me. Was receiving a letter from a convicted felon really the most exciting thing to happen to me all week?
Probably.
Good thing there was no one around to judge me, because I tore into the envelope like a toddler with zero fine motor skills on Christmas morning.
Realizing what I was doing, I slowed my movements deliberately and placed the open envelope on the counter.
Finish eating first, then you can read the letter.
I’d probably forget to eat again otherwise. Munching on the rest of my snack — I couldn’t really call it a meal — I stared at the letter, sitting innocently on the counter.
What would I find inside?
My pen pal had been randomly assigned to me, and all I’d received in advance was the most basic information.
From his profile, I knew he was twenty-eight, serving a life sentence, and of Russian descent, but I had no idea what he actually looked like.
It didn’t matter to me, of course, but I was a Nosy Nancy.
Who was I kidding? I absolutely wanted to fucking know what he looked like.
Carefully, I picked up the envelope and held it in my hands, trying to demonstrate some kind of restraint.
His name sounded kind of hot.
Sasha.
Very moanable.
Of course, I’d never dream of moaning his name — the idea alone was ridiculous.
Good lord, the intrusive thoughts were getting out of hand.
What if he’s as hot as his name? The pesky voice inside my head piped up. I hadn’t Googled him — yet. As weird as it may have sounded, I wanted to think of him as a person first and foremost, rather than the perpetrator of the crime he would be inevitably linked to by Googling him.
I groaned and shook my head as if to clear my thoughts. The last thing I needed in my dumpster fire of a life was getting the hots for a convicted felon.
And yet … the flutter of excitement wouldn’t piss off.
I set the letter down again. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to open it after all. Community service or not, perhaps I was the wrong kind of person for this kind of thing.
But I doubted Judge Thompson would care about how I felt. He assigned me this specific service because, as he put it, if I liked writing so much, I could at least put it to good use.
I stared at the envelope for a minute, biting the inside of my cheek. It stared back.
I picked it up, only to immediately set it back down again like it had burned me.
Then I picked it up again. I’d never been good at doing what I was supposed to be doing — why change now?
With careful fingers, I pulled the sheet of paper out, took a deep breath, and finally unfolded it. Anxiety twisted my insides, which was completely illogical, but I simply couldn’t help it.
My eyes flew over the bold, neat letters which looked nothing like I’d expected yet were somehow perfect for the words sinking in.
I scoffed, feeling heat rise subtly to my cheeks.
You certainly have a lot to say.
Was that really the opening line? Asshole.
I scrunched my nose. Was he really wrong, though? Hadn’t I told him myself I talked enough for the both of us?
I couldn’t really be offended by him mentioning something I’d pointed out myself.
Still, it was a bit mean. Maybe it was purely a matter of the medium. Using emojis, GIFs and memes to express emotions and nuances in written conversations had become so ingrained in everyday life, I’d forgotten how easily plain text could be misinterpreted.
Maybe he was the kind of person who was brutally honest, never beating around the bush. I could appreciate this trait in someone. I’d take someone telling me I sucked straight to my face over someone talking shit behind my back any day.
With a huff, I started to read his letter again.
February 12th
Adelaide,
You certainly have a lot to say.
I don’t usually do this. I agreed to the program because it keeps the counselor quiet. I was not expecting … that.
You’re kind of bad at introductions but color me intrigued by your vengefulness. Tell me more about Greg.
I don’t need sympathy. I don’t want advice. Definitely don’t need to be told I’m not a monster. If you’re going to write to me, write like you did this time. Like you don’t know what you’re supposed to say and do it anyway.
“Manageable” is a good word.
You can ask your questions but don’t expect me to answer them truthfully.
Sasha
P.S. Don’t slip in coffee. That’s a fucking stupid way to get hurt.
He was profoundly unimpressed with me. It was evident in his lines, emphasizing the letters were merely an act imposed on us by the authorities. Nothing more, nothing less.
Obviously this meant nothing, which was good. Fine. Great. Perfect.
Rereading the letter once more, my gaze snagged on one sentence.
You’re kind of bad at introductions but color me intrigued by your vengefulness.
He thought I sucked at introductions, yet I had managed to intrigue him. Of course I had, I was fucking interesting. Probably the most interesting thing to ever happen to him.
Well, that’s no great achievement, he’s fucking locked up, bitch, the voice in my head piped up again.
I snorted and hopped up on the counter, reading the letter for a third time, and then a fourth and a fifth, focussing on different parts each time.
Tell me more about Greg.
Sharing my story about Greg would likely fill at least one page, maybe two. Would he even read a letter that long?
If you’re going to write to me, write like you did this time.
This sentence had perhaps taken me by surprise the most. Realizing he hadn’t dismissed me immediately but had instead given me something to work with — something I could actually respond to — created a strange fluttering sensation in my stomach.
P.S. Don’t slip in coffee. That’s a fucking stupid way to get hurt.
I wrinkled my nose at the casual bluntness of his parting words. They made it seem like he was irritated but the suspicion he’d merely used this irritation to disguise his concern had taken root in my thoughts.
My giggle echoed through the empty room, only to die away abruptly.
No one had been worried about me getting hurt for a long time and the empty feeling I so skillfully ignored most days hit me with vengeance. My chest ached and I dragged in a shuddering breath, the hand still holding the letter sinking onto my thigh.
Loneliness settled in, like a fist closing around my heart. Exhaling, I consciously pushed those thoughts aside, shoving them into the farthest corner of my mind and refusing to examine them too closely.
I dragged my notepad out from under a pile of clutter and stared at the lined, blank page, suddenly frantic to keep myself busy, to distract my brain.
My gaze darted around the room, trying to locate a pen amidst the usual disarray. I jumped up with a triumphant “Yes!” when I spotted one on top of the microwave.
Settling into my chair once more, I let the pen hover over the page for a moment before deciding to let my thoughts run free.
Hi Sasha,
First of all, I would like to formally object to the allegation suggesting I “have a lot to say.” I only have a medium amount to say. Maybe you just don’t have enough to say? It’s okay if you’re kind of boring. Not everyone can be as uniquely interesting as I am.
I paused, staring at the words I’d written. Could I really say that?
Yes, I decided. You don’t want him to think you’re a doormat.
Trying not to overthink it, I put pen to paper again.
You read my letter which means technically you’re accepting we’re friends now. I don’t make the rules.