I wait for him to finish the creepy ritual before saying, “I need a room.”
“How many hours?” He licks his lips.
“The rest of the summer.”
He asks for a credit card, and I give him the Help Wanted sign. The conversation that follows would make Susan B. Anthony roll in her grave.
He needs a handyman and thinks that job requires a penis. I grew up on a ranch and can do anything with my hands. When I phrase it that way, his gaze latches onto body parts I will not be using, but whatever. He gives me the job and a room.
I don’t have the same confidence when it comes to visiting my brother. Reconstructing myself into an impenetrable, unfeeling robot takes constant effort. I’m a work in progress, raw and untested, and Lorne has the power to disassemble me.
I expect the same reception from him that Jake and Jarret gave me. He received my messages and chose not to respond. I’m not ready to experience his rejection in person.
So I put it off and bury myself in distractions. I apply for college loans. Acquaint myself with the campus. Buy a prepaid phone. And fix everything that needs fixing around the motel.
It takes me a month to work up the courage to drive to Oklahoma State Penitentiary. Then I sit in the parking lot for an hour, reminding myself why I came.
He’s my brother.
I love him.
I have to know if he loves me back.
Razor wire fences, armed towers, drab white paint, tiny windows—this is where all the executions for the state are implemented. I block it all out as I enter the visitor door.
When I give my name at the desk, the guard turns to the computer.
He’s going to tell me I’m not on the visitor list.
I filled out the visitor application two years ago, but Lorne has the right to refuse me. I know he doesn’t want to see me.
“Right this way, Miss Cassidy.” The guard leads me to a bay of elevators.
Stunned, I move through the prison, pause for the security check, and follow the signs and commands from the guards.
Since Lorne’s unit has non-contact visitation only, I’m escorted into a small narrow room. Plastic chairs sit in a row, each in a separate booth. I lower into the one I’m directed to and wait.
A moment later, he appears on the other side of the glass partition in a periwinkle blue jumpsuit.
He’s thinner. Older. Hard green eyes. Black hair that crops close to his skull. He carries himself with a severe edge of intimidation. Still handsome, but unsmiling, in a deadly way. And not a hint of surprise on his clean-shaved face. I’m sure they gave him my name.
He steps into the booth, and I harden my spine, steeling myself for a brush-off.
Safety glass prevents him from touching me. Conversation requires the use of a telephone. I don’t reach for the receiver.
He lowers into the chair, his unwavering stare never leaving mine. An eternal moment passes, the silence hovering like a timekeeper.
Is he thinking about the ravine? That’s the last time he saw me. Naked. Violated. My body used in ways a brother should’ve never been forced to witness.
If I hadn’t sneaked off with Jake that night, if I hadn’t been such a rebellious little slut, Lorne wouldn’t be sitting on the other side of that glass. God, how he must hate me.
He picks up the phone.
I don’t move. It’s too scary. Too painful.
He flattens a hand against the glass partition.
I stare at the scar on his palm, at the fingers that used to hold mine when I cried. I don’t trust what he’s offering. I can’t reach for it.
He waits.
Then he mouths, “I love you.”
I close my eyes and block out the rising burn in my throat. I block out the partitions and the guards’ squeaky shoes and the ten years my brother will spend behind that glass in that stupid blue jumpsuit. I block it all out and open my eyes. Because I’m happy to see him.
He didn’t turn me away.
With a steady inhale, I lift the receiver and bring it to my ear.
“Conor,” he breathes, and his hand makes a winding slide down the glass, as if tracing my outline.
“Lorne.”
“God, you…” His gaze roams my face, softening with each pass. “You’re so beautiful. You look just like Mom.”
I don’t remember her, but I used to have pictures. I’ve seen the resemblance.
“You’re not answering your phone.” Lines appear on his brow. “Do you have a new number?”
“You called me? When?”
“Every day for the past week.”
My hand clenches around the phone, my voice low. “You haven’t tried to reach me in two years.”
“I know.” A muscle bounces in his jaw. “You were supposed to stay in Chicago.”
I clamp my molars together, vibrating with things I refuse to feel.
“I know why you didn’t stay.” His gaze lowers to my ribs. Then my stomach. He stares so hard it’s as if he can see the faded bruises beneath my shirt.