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She just better be ready when I get there.
Chapter 13
Lizzy
A tear falls from my cheek and hits one of the unopened envelopes. There’s a small stack of them on my kitchen counter and I stare at them unable to understand why he stopped taking them. I swipe at my face as more tears fall and I can’t make them stop. I was so sure when the first one came back that it was a mistake. But each day another shows up marked “return to sender.”
I didn’t believe it was happening the first few days. I’d gotten a crazy idea that maybe he was transferred or something. All I had to do was find the new address and hope it wasn’t too far away. I knew he might not want me visiting, but I didn’t care for the idea of him being farther away even if I wasn’t seeing him.
That could have happened, right? Prisoners get transferred all the time. I searched online, knowing there’s a list of inmates for each facility. You only need to know their inmate number and I did. It showed him there as of a week ago, but I haven’t searched since then. I keep sending letters and they keep getting returned.
I sniff as my heart aches. What I felt must have just been one sided, or not real. Otherwise why is he giving me the brush off after he’d asked me to keep writing? He told me not to come back and now none of this makes sense. I knew he was attracted to me because I could see it in the way he looked at me. When he’d pulled me in to hug him I felt his hard-on dig into me. I swear I can still feel it pressed into my stomach if I close my eyes. Every inch of him was hard and big. I knew that before I’d felt him against me but now every detail is real because I had it for a moment.
While I love that hard side to him, I adored seeing his soft side that he didn’t show to anyone else. He even smiled at me, which is something I’m guessing he hadn’t done in a long time. Thoughts of what his mouth would feel like against mine and in other places makes my body ache. All off him was hard, but for some reason I knew his lips would be so soft against mine.
I pick up the letters and pile them together, then I open the drawer where I keep the ones he’s written me and put them inside for safekeeping. I run my finger across one of the faded letters and it’s almost embarrassing how worn they all are for the short time I’ve had them. I read them every day, sometimes multiple times a day. I don’t care if it makes me obsessed, I like being consumed by his words.
Maybe I’ll try and send them again once the others stop getting returned. I don’t know what’s happening, but I refuse to stop writing. I’ll send one every day, knowing that it’s going to come back to me, because I won’t quit on him. Ever. He’ll never doubt that I wasn’t in this for the long haul and that he isn’t in this fight alone. I knew what it felt like to be alone and I never wanted him to feel that way.
I pick up the letter I wrote today and unlock the front door. I carry it out to the mailbox and put up the flag, but before I go inside I glance over at Mrs. Honey’s house. She’s staying with her son for a few days, and seeing the lights off at her house makes me feel lonelier than normal.
I go to walk back inside but freeze when I see a man standing up against a black SUV two houses down. He’s looking right at me and he doesn’t turn away when I notice him. He’s openly staring at me and he doesn’t care that I’ve caught him. This is the third time today I thought I saw the same vehicle and now this guy.
I take a deep breath and try to get my heart rate under control. I’m not letting someone intimidate me. I turn to face him and begin to approach him. He stands a little taller and he looks shocked that I’m going to address him.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask, my tone brisk and direct.
“No.” He responds just as curtly.
“Well, I suggest you move along or do whatever it is you’re here to do before I call the cops.”
I square my shoulders and narrow my eyes. I won’t be backed into a corner and intimidated by a man ever again.
“I’m just standing here.” I see his jaw tick and he’s irritated by me confronting him.
