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What? It feels as if I've been punched in the gut. I can hardly breath. How could he be saying these things? How could he do this to me? And more importantly, how could I be such a fool to fall for any of it. My pain is turning to anger. I can hear my friend Brie's words ringing in my head: This man is serving a life sentence for murder and you're willing to overlook that just because he's hot?
"Why are you doing this?" I ask. I feel the disbelief in my eyes as I look at him.
"Look, fucking you was fun, but let's be honest—this isn't real. None of it is." His voice takes a mocking tone and hearing these words pour of out of his mouth makes me want to slap him. It feels like the ultimate betrayal and I hear something in the deep caverns of my body break. I'm fighting the urge to hurt him. I don't want to stoop to that level and I'm holding back hot tears that are threatening to spill down my face. They're sloshing behind my eyelids like water in a too-full cup, and I am trying to keep still because I know that any movement at this point will cause them to overflow. And I'll be damned if I allow myself to shed a tear in front of him.
"I'm happy here—despite you coming in here today and talking to me like I'm a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of your shoe—I'm doing well. The inmates trust me and I'll be up for a pay increase soon. I'm not going to throw this job away because of you—just because you say so. I t
hought I knew you. But looking at you right now, I guess I don't, and maybe I never did."
With that, Lucien raises his head, no longer slumped, and looks me in the eyes. For the first time, I see that he has fresh bruises on his face. His bottom lip is split open on one side, and one of his eyes is swollen. There's a purple lump on his left cheekbone that looks pretty bad and I wonder who did this to him.
"Oh my god—what happened to you?" I ask. I can't believe I didn't notice until this moment. I reach out to touch his cheek with my fingers and he grabs my arm sharply.
"Don't touch me."
"Lucien, I—"
"It's nothing."
"Let me fix you. I can grab an ice pack and make a compress and—"
"Don't you see? You can't fucking fix me! This is what's real. This prison—these four concrete walls—the fact that you and I will never have a future. All of it."
"I—I need to tell you something," I begin to say. I feel like it's now or never. I need to get something off my chest. "I'm—"
But before I can finish my sentence, with one hard kick, Lucien pushes his chair back and the four metal legs make a shrill scratching sound. When he stands up, he pushes the chair back against the table, and I feel the vibration of it in my arms. It's clear to me that he's over this conversation and isn't willing to hear any more. I'm still trying to talk as I watch him turn around.
"… I'm pregnant," I whisper, the words dying on my lips. He doesn't see or hear me because he is already out the door and walking down the hallway.
Lucien
Can you imagine anything more awkward than getting examined by the woman you just told off? I didn't think so. And of course here we are—Kerri's checking on my recent injuries—touching the areas that need to be touched and making notes on her clipboard. I can tell she's pissed off and hurt. She's not making eye contact and barely saying a word. She's being diligent in her exam but doing just enough to get her job done. I don't blame her. But what she doesn't know is that it's eating me up inside. This shit is like acid in my guts. I'm being eaten alive. I didn't want to end things but I had no choice.
What else am I supposed to do? It's for her own good—all of it. Either I do this and she lives, or I choose the alternative and she's in danger. "Does this hurt?" she asks, and I shake my head and tell her it's not bad, but actually, on a scale from one to 10, it's a fucking eight. I just want to be done here. Going through these fucking motions with her is worse than any of these physical injuries. I guess even the cheesiest love songs—like the ones that pop Country music artists sing about dead dogs and broken down pickups—are right. Love fucking hurts, and yeah, I used the L word. I did love her—I still do, and that's why I'm ending this shit. I want her to walk away from all of this alive. I won't let Grinder or any of those shitheads touch her. That much I've promised myself.
"Anything else?" I ask, eager to get the fuck out of here.
"You tell me."
I can feel the tension in her tone. And it's not just the way she says it but also the way her eyes are penetrating mine and threatening to peel me back, layer by layer. She lays those words on me and all of a sudden the air feels thick as peanut butter. It's like I can slice the air in this fucking room with a knife.
"I can't do this," I say, not really meaning it. At least, not 100%, but I hope I sound convincing.
"Convenient. You're such a coward. I don't know why I thought you could ever change."
I just look at her. I don't know what to say because all of the things that want to tumble out of my mouth like a sack of loose marbles—all of those words that spell the fucking truth—I can't say. So instead, I'm looking at her like a fucking idiot and she gives me this look with her eyes that says, well, what now asshole? "I'm sorry, I guess I deserve this place," is all I can say. I know it's lame but it's the best I've got.
"This is not the man I fell in love with."
And like a real ass I just shrug my shoulders. I figure the more I can piss her off, the better it'll be on her. Maybe she'll hate me enough to finally leave. The quicker she realizes this is over, the better. She can move on with her life and I can go on with worrying about covering my own ass in this shitty place.
"I don't know what you're up to, and I almost hate to admit this, but I'm not some switch that can be turned off and on. Maybe you are, but that's not me. I still think you have a chance of getting out of this place. We can make a life together."
No sooner do these words leave her mouth that I see the pain in her face. Tears are forming at the corners of her eyes and it takes everything in me to not reach out to her—to touch her—to hold her, and run my fingers through her hair. But instead of doing that I double down and tell her she's wrong.
She takes a step back and trips on the strap of her purse slightly, and kicks it out of her way. She turns her back to me; I can tell she's crying and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. And as her back is turned, I look down at the floor and my gaze lands on her purse. From where I'm sitting, I can look straight into it and at first, I'm not sure if what I'm seeing is what I think it is. I strain and lean in closer, moving quickly before she turns back around and catches me. Then I see it again—sitting right there on top of everything—and this time I know exactly what I'm looking at.
My suspicions are correct. The black and white square piece of paper that I'm looking at—the one with a grainy image that resembles the shape of an oversized gummy bear—it's an ultrasound photo. There's no doubt about it, and with this realization my heart catches in my throat and my stomach just about crashes to the floor. My head is like a car racing around a track a hundred miles an hour, and just when I think I'm going to get dizzy from it all and maybe pass out right here and crash on the linoleum—right in front of Kerri—it hits me.
