If I Could Do It Again

  “I fucking hate him,” I say right away. “He’s such a dick.”

  I don’t know what it is about hearing Joshua’s voice that makes me suddenly feel like the flood gates are about to open, but it does. Maybe it’s because I know he cares, or perhaps it’s that I know he’ll make me feel better if I do cry.

  Joshua sighs. “I take it your husband’s home early.”

  “Yes,” I say, my voice cracking on the word as I try damn hard to hold back the threatening tears. I sit down on the changing room stool, wrapping an arm around my belly.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Baby,” he says, his voice turning soft. “Tell me what happened.”

  I sniffle. It’s stupid, I know. I feel ridiculous crying over this, but there’s just something about Joshua, something that makes me feel so comfortable and safe, that all my worries and stresses just pour out. Even so, I wipe away the tears, trying to pull myself together. “It’s nothing, really … I’m overreacting. He just makes me so mad. I swear he knows exactly what to say to hurt me.”

  Joshua lets out another long sigh. “What did he say to you, baby?”

  “I was doing squats and lunges and he said I should work on my problem areas, like my fat arms.”

  “Fucking dick.”

  Silence falls.

  I sniffle again, my mind falling to Richard, to his text messages and insinuations. What if he’s right about the fat thing? What if Joshua sees me and wants nothing more to do with me? He’s seen pictures, he knows I’m a curvy girl, but every single picture I’ve sent him over the last couple of months has been … only the most flattering angles.

  “There’s something else,” I say, my stomach twisting up. “Something I want to tell you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You asked about my weight.”

  “Baby, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Just let me get this out, okay?” I pause, taking a breath. “I’m one-hundred and eighty-four pounds. I’ve lost a little over thirty pounds in the last six months, but my weight loss has kind of stopped. No matter what I do or how many hours a day I spend working out, I just stay the same.”

  The words pour out of me, tears stinging in my eyes once more as bile burns in my throat. This is it. This is the moment he’s going to tell me I’m not good enough.

  This is the moment when Richard’s horrible words become reality.

  Suddenly, I’m kicking myself for not telling Joshua my fat status from the start. I would have confessed it in the first letter if I’d known it would save me this much heartache.

  “That’s it?” he asks.

  My brow furrows. “Yeah.”

  “It’s no big deal,” he says. “Weight’s something that can be changed. We’ll work on it together.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he confirms. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll spend some time this weekend and put together some workouts for you. It’s really no big deal. I’ve been working out my whole life so it won’t take me long to put something together for you.”

  I roll my eyes, laughing a little, stunned. He sounds so goddamn relaxed about this. I wish I had even an ounce of his confidence. “Thank you.”

  “It’ll all work out,” he says, reassuringly. “Just think, tomorrow at this time you’ll be on your way up here and you’ll get some time away from him. Time to clear your head and relax.”

  I smile, my voice turning soft as I say, “I can’t wait.”

  11

  Metal Detectors and Wireless Bras

  The metal detector beeps.

  “Step back through and take off your shoes, ma’am,” the guard says. “Do you have any other metal on you, jewelry or your bra?”

  “No, sir,” I say, my voice squeaking on the words. Shit, I’m nervous. My hands are shaking as I unzip my knee-high boots. “No jewelry other than what’s already in the dish and my bra is wireless.”

  He nods as I place the boots on the counter, watching as another guard begins to search them, running a gloved hand inside, feeling along the interior.

  “Try again,” the first guard says, waving me through the detector once more.

  I step through cautiously, careful not to touch the side, but the damn thing beeps again.

  My stomach twists into painfully tight knots. That was twice. Twice. I only have one more shot at this before he won’t let me in.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, lifting my shoulders helplessly. “I don’t know what’s setting it off.”

  “You’re okay. We’ll get you through,” he says, cracking a small, reassuring smile. He points toward a box of clear plastic bags at the end of the counter. “Why don’t you take one of those bags, go to the bathroom and put your bra inside. It could be the clasps on the back setting it off. You’ll be able to put it back on once it’s inspected.”

  “Okay, sure.” I offer him a smile, trying to get my shaking hands under control as I step over to the bags, taking a deep breath as I reach in and grab one.

  It doesn’t take me long to get out of my bra, and within moments, I’m back at the counter with it in hand. I feel my body flush as I set it on the counter. I know my nervousness is written all over my face. I cross my arms over my chest, attempting to give some support to my breasts as I try hard to ignore the guard patting down my bra.

  The other guard meets my eyes, his green ones bright and smiling, and he nods me through the metal detector once again.

  I hold my breath as I step through, praying the issue was the bra.

  I laugh awkwardly. “I guess all that time I spent looking for a wireless bra was a waste of time.”

  He laughs at that, a deep, soothing sound, as he picks up a stamp, dabbing it against the ink pad. “Guess so. Your right hand, please.”

  Holding out my hand, he stamps it. It’s clear, nothing showing up on my skin, and for a moment I wonder what it’s for. He must see the question on my face because he smiles again and says, “It’s a black light stamp. When you leave, a guard will check to make sure you’ve got it under a black light.”

  “Oh, okay.” I pick up my bra. “Do I go back to the bathroom to put this on?”

  “You can step into that room right there to put your bra back on, ma’am,” he says, pointing to a door behind me. “When you come out, you’re going to go through this door, and follow the yellow painted walkway. It’ll lead you right up to the visiting area.”

  “Thank you,” I say, picking up all my belongings, turning away and stepping into the small room.

  Closing the door behind me, I try to lock it, but the lock doesn’t work, not that I’m surprised. The room looks like a strip search area—a table in the corner and a small blue pail filled with a bunch of plastic bra bags.

  Quickly, I lift up my snug fitting purple sweater dress, putting on my bra and fastening it, and then I smooth my dress back in place. I pull my boots on, zipping them up, and then I fasten the bracelet Joshua made for me before stepping out of the room and through the doors.

  It’s at that moment that I notice the fences.

  Walking through the door, I see the tall, barbed wire fences looming in front and surrounding me. I have no choice but to walk forward, stopping at a gate. I try to open it, but it won’t budge—locked. I’m about to turn around when I hear the mechanical grinding of the lock popping open, so I reach for it again, stepping into a small, wire enclosure—with another gate.

  I step up to it and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  It feels as though ten minutes pass before the lock pops open and I can finally pass through, though I’m sure it’s only seconds, and then, I’m following the yellow painted walkway.

  It’s not a far walk, only a few minutes and a set of stairs to get to the visiting area. I walk in, glancing around nervously, feeling severely self-conscious as I pass by a line of vending machines and step up to the next desk, smiling at yet another guard.

  “Who are y
ou here to see?” he asks, not looking up from his computer screen.

  “Joshua Larson.”

  “Go to table 25.” He points toward the back of the room. “Straight down this aisle, second last one at the end.”

  “May I get snacks first?” I ask nervously, not really sure if I’m allowed to.

  He looks up at me then, smiling a little. “Sure. Your inmate will be here shortly.”

  “Thank you,” I say, turning back to the vending machines. It takes seconds to find the drink and Swedish Fish that Joshua had asked for. I grab the snacks and make my way to the table, taking a seat.

  And then I wait.

  Inmates come in.

  Visitors get snacks.

  Inmates leave.

  And I wait, my eyes glued to the glass enclosed room that the inmates seem to be coming and going from.

  Minutes pass. One, five, eight.

  I’m getting restless, my knees jumping, bumping against the knee high table. My hands are fidgeting, constantly running along my dress, smoothing it out, and my mind is racing trying to remember all the rules. No more than a ten-second hug and kiss at the beginning and end of the visit. Holding hands is permitted as long as your hands are above the table and visible to the guard. Inmates are not allowed to touch money or use vending …

  And then I see him.

  Joshua steps into the glass room, dressed in all green, his eyes scanning the visitors area as he waits for a guard. When his gaze lands on mine, he smiles widely and waves—yes, he waves—looking like an excited child.

  It feels like an eternity passes as he’s patted down by a guard and checks in at the desk, but then everything seems to happen too fast, and suddenly he’s standing at our table, smiling down at me.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, stopping at our table, still smiling as he hangs his coat on the back of his plastic chair. Holding a hand out to me, he says, “Come here, sexy.”

  “Hey you,” I say, standing up. I’m shaking, trembling, as he pulls me into his arms. He yanks me to him quickly, so close that I can feel every bit of his hard sculpted body pressed against me. Feeling those hard muscles makes me all too aware of my own generous curves. My chest feels as though it’s about to explode, my heart thumping so hard it nearly hurts. And then he pulls me closer still, his grip so tight that I know I’ll never be able to wiggle my way out, not unless he allows it, and I abso-freakin’-lutely love it.

  Best embrace ever.

  His lips work over mine, his tongue filling my mouth as soon as our lips touch. There’s nothing gentle about it. He claims my lips with the same force he used to pull me to him.

  The kiss ends too soon, though it’s not by choice. Stupid ten second rule. I want to lean into him again, feel those soft lips of his against mine just one more time, but he steps away, letting me go just as abruptly as he pulled me in, and takes a seat.

  Unbelievably, I’m shakier now than I was before the kiss. I wobble back to my chair, taking an embarrassingly ungraceful seat. I look at him. “That was … wow.”

  My words make him laugh. “Yeah, baby, it was wow.”

  Silence falls.

  It’s not pleasant.

  It’s awkward and long and I want to break it, but dammit if I’m not tongue-tied and speechless. I glance around, scoping out the other tables. They’re nearly all full, inmates and their loved ones smiling and chatting. Everyone seems so relaxed. Even the guards are chatting with each other, barely looking in anyone’s direction.

  It’s … odd and seriously not what I was expecting.

  Joshua raises his eyebrows, looking at me peculiarly, as he reaches for the packet of Swedish Fish, popping one into his mouth. “Baby, why are you shaking?”

  I’m so embarrassed I can feel my face heating. What’s wrong with me, shaking like a goddamn leaf? I want to slink away, go hide over by the vending machines. “Just ignore me. My hands always shake a little. Tremors, they run in my family.”

  He laughs. “It’s your whole body, sweetness. Are you nervous?”

  “Little bit. Is it that obvious?”

  “Yeah,” he says, laughing again. “It is.”

  I stare at him, taking him in. Jesus, he looks even better in person. I can see some of his tattoos. The devil and dragons on his forearms. They’re sexy as hell.

  Silence lingers between us as he pops another candy into his mouth, watching me intently. I want to say something—anything—but I have no words. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe he’s here. I …

  “You want to play a game?”

  A game?

  No, not really. I’m too nervous to concentrate. “Um, sure.”

  A legitimate look of surprise crosses his face, but he wipes it away quickly, smiling once more. I guess he wasn’t expecting me to say yes. “How about Scrabble?”

  No, anything but Scrabble. I suck at Scrabble.

  I smile. “Sounds good.”

  He stands up and walks away from the table, heading over to a desk behind us that I hadn’t noticed before. He smiles and chats with the guard there for a moment, before picking up the board game and making his way back to our table.

  He’s quiet as he opens the box, laying the board and shaking up the playing pieces. Once he’s done, he glances up at me, smiling as he opens the bag for me. “Pick your tiles.”

  We play in silence for a while, and each time he picks up his drink, taking a sip, I kick myself for not grabbing one for myself. My throat is dry, so is my mouth, nerves wreaking havoc on my body. I lick my lips, still tasting the cinnamon taste from his kiss. I bet he ate one of those fireball candies he likes so much before coming up to the visit.

  I lay down a word, and so does he, his, triple the length of my measly three letters. And the silence continues.

  Shit. What are we going to do for five hours if we can’t even talk for five minutes in person?

  “So talk to me, baby girl,” he says eventually, studying his pieces. “Tell me something new about yourself.”

  “Hmmm … let’s see,” I say, stalling, trying hard not to think about how hard he’s staring at me, taking in every detail as though there just might be a test later. I’m pretty sure if there is, he’d ace it. “Okay, a story. Did I ever tell you about the time one of my horses decided to help unpack the groceries?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I’d like to hear it.”

  “Okay,” I say, my eyes falling back to the tiles, searching for a word. “It was wintertime and Pepper had gotten out of the fence. He did that a lot, always finding the weak points to break through. Anyway, we were unloading the groceries, and the horse came up checking things out. I grabbed a bag full of bread and a case of soda from the trunk, and he followed me right into the house, yanking a loaf of bread out of the bag as I set it down, and took back off out of the house. It took me and my sisters thirty minutes of chasing him around the property before we managed to get the loaf of bread back.”

  Joshua leans back in his chair, and chuckles. “I can’t believe he fit through the door.”

  “Mom was so angry,” I tell him, laughing as I lay down another three-letter word. “She’d just painted the hardwood floors and he scratched them all up.”

  “I bet.” He laughs again. “I’d be pissed, too.”

  We play seven rounds of Scrabble and the man kicks my ass every time. I seem to be the master of three-letter words.

  I make him a vending machine hamburger. Gross. But he assures me that it’s like gourmet food compared to what they get at mealtimes. He tries to get me to eat with him, but I settle for just a Diet Coke, not sure I want to risk the vending machines.

  And we talk—a lot.

  At some point, the time stops slugging by, flying instead. Hours feel like minutes; minutes feel like seconds. My hands stop shaking, my heart stops racing, although those butterflies in my belly never do take a rest.

  I don’t want the visit to end—ever. But looking at the clock, I know that we don’t have much lon
ger. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes left.

  “Are you having fun?” he asks, still watching me as intently as when he first sat down. I’m too focused on making a word that’s more than three letters to let the attention bother me anymore.

  “Yes, are you?” I ask, lifting my eyes to his.

  He nods, chuckling. “I’ve got to tell you, baby, I thought you’d be better at Scrabble than you are.”

  I let out a sharp laugh. “Are you saying I suck at Scrabble?”

  “You don’t suck,” he responds, his voice teasing, as he picks up his bottled drink and takes a sip. “You’re just not as good as I thought you’d be, being an author and all.”

  “I depend on spell check a lot,” I mutter, and it’s true. “I’ve actually mastered how to spell inconvenience wrong enough for spell check to understand it.”

  “Seriously?” he asks, eyes widening. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to learn how to spell it right?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “You’d think, but my brain always wants to add a ‘t’.”

  I’m quiet for a moment as a guard appears at our table, letting us know that our time is almost up, before walking away.

  I take a sip of my soda. “This sucks. I can’t believe it’s already over.”

  He smiles softly. “We get five more hours tomorrow, beautiful, and a lot more Scrabble to come.”

  There’s something refreshing about the way he looks at it—instead of being upset, he smiles, looking forward to the next good thing. I could learn a lot from his outlook.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You’re right.”

  “You might want to brush up on your spelling skills,” he continues. “It’s almost sad how badly I destroyed you at the game given your profession.”

  I slouch back in my chair, taking another sip of my drink. “Right, I’ll study the dictionary tonight.”

  Joshua chuckles and leans over the table, closer to me, taking my hands in his, rubbing them. “Want to know a secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been practicing with some of the guys since you said you were coming,” he says, and I swear there’s a little red in his cheeks suddenly. “I thought you’d like this game because you’re an author and I didn’t want to look bad playing against you.”