5. Chapter 5
Addy
Iwas working on autopilot.
I did read the letter all the way through.
There was no reason for it to feel as intimate as it did.
Squeeze, whirl, flick.
Effort can’t replace structure.
Why did he have to go and say that? I knew he was right, but still.
Squeeze, whirl, flick.
Have you ever considered you were never meant to be smaller?
Why did this line hit me harder than my dad’s death anniversary last year?
With a turn of my wrist, I finished frosting the last cupcake of the massive, last-minute order I’d taken on in an attempt to pay my rent on time this month. It was 5 A.M., and I was pet-sitting Boomer, the schnauzer, in a mere two hours.
I was exhausted. This time he’d probably succeed in toppling me over and dragging me through the park hanging off his leash. Huffing, I set the piping bag aside and shook out my aching hands. Damn, my cupcakes were pretty as fuck.
You might think that given my failed bakery, I’d suck at baking, but, as Sasha pointed out in his letter, it wasn’t because my skills were lacking.
Fucking Sasha.
If it hadn’t been obvious before, it was painfully clear now. This man was no church boy. He wasn’t in there by accident. He belonged in prison, and he probably should be locked up.
Although I didn’t deal with dangerous men on a daily basis, I still had a weird feeling the majority of them probably didn’t talk like this. Especially not to some random woman who sent them a letter to fucking prison as part of community service.
The thing was, Sasha wasn’t trying to flatter me or appease me. He was honest and blunt, while at the same time it seemed as though he was trying to categorize me. And man, was he struggling.
Sasha didn’t tell me the shed story to impress me. He was telling it to establish a baseline. He wanted me to realize exactly who I was dealing with.
Even though him serving a life sentence should’ve already given me more than enough reasons to feel threatened, it didn’t really register. I felt seen. Which was probably way worse.
I was packing up the cupcakes in cute little boxes but I couldn’t stop thinking about his letter. When it arrived, I’d been excited, almost giddy, but I stopped, reminding myself how wrong it was to get excited about a letter from him.
I brushed the stray baby hairs escaping from my bun off my forehead, suddenly aware of the layer of sweat coating it.
But was it wrong?
Realistically, I’d never ever meet Sasha in real life. It wasn’t like I was dating a criminal. I was simply enjoying talking to a faceless person and letting it distract me from my reality, if only temporarily.
My hands were slightly shaking as I picked up the letter and unfolded the page for the umpteenth time, scanning the scrawled words on the paper.
My life was no fairytale, and I wouldn’t begrudge myself this small, really insignificant indulgence. No harm, no foul.
He’s in prison. I’ll never meet him. This is safe.
Sasha didn’t strike me as someone who would apologize to anyone or soften his language. I wondered if this was just his nature, given his background as a hardened criminal, or if he was trying to scare me off by being as abrupt as possible.
The way he put it made it sound more like my life was a systemic problem rather than a personal failure.
I didn’t like sympathy. Never have. Shit happened and it could always be much worse. Sasha not bothering with it disarmed me.
He hadn’t explicitly invited me to write again, but he had allowed it.
Without meaning to, I already found myself mentally drafting a reply. I’d show some restraint, though, and wait until I got back from pet-sitting Boomer later.
What would he do if I didn’t reply? Would he write to me again, or would he be glad to be rid of me?
My stomach twisted itself into knots at the thought. The mere idea felt wrong somehow, and I refused to examine this reaction too closely.
Shoving the letter into the back pocket of my jeans, I began cleaning up the trail of destruction I’d left in my wake.
I should be careful … but I knew I wouldn’t be.
March 19th
Hi Sasha,
“Medium is optimistic” felt personal, but I’ll allow it.
I accept the provisional arrangement and I’m assuming it comes with no warranties and a very limited return policy.
Your analysis of Greg was uncomfortably accurate, which I resent on principle. I prefer my bad decisions to feel mysterious.
Also, I take mild offense at the implication of inconsistency. I’m extremely consistent, just not in a particularly productive way.
Since we’re apparently exchanging formative disaster stories:
I am technically responsible for a carnival losing power for forty-seven minutes. There was a funnel cake truck, an extension cord, and a situation I thought was “probably fine.”
It was not fine.
The Ferris wheel stopped mid-rotation, and I had to apologize to a man dressed as a pickle. In my defense, no one explicitly told me not to plug industrial fryers into decorative outlets.
Your shed story is … concerning, in an impressive way. I feel like we’re playing the same game with very different budgets and consequences.
I should probably be alarmed, but I'm just intrigued for some reason. Maybe it's because you don’t seem interested in pretending to be safe?
I’m going to stop here before I say something else you can weaponize against me later.
Hoping you’ll write again. I probably will.
— Addy