Page 5 of Buy Back My Love

“I said I’m not, Patrice.”

“Everybody says that, then be back in here.”

“That won’t be my story!” The words came out harder than I intended.

Patrice didn’t argue. She’d seen the same thing I had. Women would leave swearing they were never coming back, then six months later we’d hear their name during count.

She walked over and wrapped her arms around me. My body went stiff before I could stop it. In prison, you thought twice before letting anybody get that close, even Patrice. I had to remind myself who was touching me before I finally relaxed and hugged her back.

“And you better write me,” she whispered.

“I will.”

“Send pictures of everything. Food. Your house. Your man. All of it.”

At the mention of JB, I went quiet before telling her, “I got you.”

Patrice pulled away and wiped her eyes before any tears could fall.

“Davis.”

Officer Bradley stood outside the cell with a clipboard pressed against her stomach.

“Pack your property.”

My entire life inside the prison fit into one clear plastic bag. Inside were the Bible Anika sent me during my first Christmas, three composition notebooks filled with thoughts I would probably never read again, a stack of letters held together with a rubber band, and an envelope stuffed with photographs I’d looked at so many times the corners had started curling. Anika’s college graduation, birthdays, cookouts, ordinary days I should’ve been there for.

My favorite was an old picture JB had dug up and sent me. Me and him at seventeen, standing in front of his first car with matching foolish grins on our faces. I turned it over and ran my thumb across the words he’d written on the back.

Still us. Always.

I slid the picture back into the envelope, praying he really meant it because I was about to find out.

Patrice walked with me as far as she was allowed. A few women called goodbye from their cells. Some wished me luck while others watched silently, their expressions hard to read. Leaving brought something ugly out of people. Some women smiled for you. Some looked like they hated your guts. A few managed to do both.

At the end of the unit, I stopped and looked back at the gray walls, metal stairs, and rows of faces. I had really spent five years underneath them fluorescent lights.

I expected to feel something bigger about leaving, relief, anger, victory, hell, something. Mostly, I was tired.

“Go,” Patrice called from behind the gate.

I looked back at her one last time, nodded, then followed Officer Bradley down the hall. Every door opened with a buzz and closed behind me with a slam.

Processing took longer than it should have. Fingerprints, signatures, questions I had already answered. A woman behind a scratched plastic partition eventually slid my identification card and release paperwork through the narrow opening.

“Verify your information.”

I looked down at the card and barely recognized myself. The picture had been taken shortly after sentencing. My cheeks were fuller then, my eyes softer, and my hair was pressed straight and parted down the middle because I still cared enough back then to make sure I looked good for pictures. My front tooth was still whole too. That was before one bad day in the yard left me with a chip I’d catch myself feeling with my tongue.

The woman staring back at me looked scared, and I hated her a little. Not because she was weak, but because she had no idea what was coming.

“Everything correct?”

“Yes.”

The clerk handed me a debit card with the little money left in my account, then pointed me toward a changing room.

JB had sent me something to wear home. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater, and brown ankle boots. Nothing flashy or likely to have everybody staring at me the second I stepped outside.