“Ouch,” I hiss as I take the hot, metal fork full of boiled packet noodles out of my mouth.

“You eat that shit almost every day and still haven’t figured out how long to wait for it to cool down,” my best friend Taylah teases from her desk opposite mine. Taylah and I also started working here together. Becoming quick friends, we live in one another’s pockets. If we’re not together, we’re texting or calling, constantly updating one another about every minute detail. It’s probably not healthy, but it works for us.

“It’s not that I haven’t figured out to wait, it’s just that I’m so hungry when I finally get it in front of me.” My stomach rumbles loudly reaffirming my argument.

“I have no idea how you eat that. Even plain boiled pasta tastes better than that stuff. And,” she adds with emphasis, “if you weren’t glued to your computer you would remember to eat.”

“Like being on the computer is an option, do you not remember where we work?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.” She leaves her desk and walks around mine to pry. “See? First, his release is in five weeks so you have plenty of time. Second, you’re going beyond the call of duty here. It doesn’t have to be this detailed.”

“I just want to make sure there’s no stone left unturned. You know how hard employment is with a record. It’s the biggest setback.”

“I get it, but it’s not worth you eating that nasty shit.”

I smile at her disdain for my eating choices and purposefully overfill my mouth with noodles.

“You’re sick, you know that. Sick and disgusting.”

“Hello ladies.” Joe’s arrival has us both side eyeing one another. Joe and I don’t get along, but an awkward encounter at a Christmas party few years ago solidified Joe and Taylah as mortal enemies.

“Hello asshat, how are you this week?”

He ignores her and zeroes in on my computer screen. “What are you doing?”

“At my work desk on a friday? Geez Joe, what do you think I’m doing?”

It’s been a week since we drove back to the city in an awkward, judgement-fueled silence, and every day since he’s been trying to start conversations that I’m not interested in.

“Working over lunch?” he asks, ignoring my snarkiness. I return my focus to the computer screen in front of me and continue to scroll through the list of Google recommendations.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few extra things I need to take care of. Do you mind?”

His head lowers near mine as he nosily peers over my shoulder. “I wonder who this is for?” Sarcasm laces his voice, and Taylah looks between us mouthing “what the fuck?”

“Was there a point to your visit, Joe?”

“You’re crossing lines with this guy.” There’s a hint of concern, but his usual arrogant self overshadows any good deed, and has me dropping the cutlery in agitation. Irritated, I turn, my body stiff and on the defensive. “Crossing lines? Since when is looking for employment for my client crossing lines?”

“He can do it with his parole officer,” he argues.

“It’s not unheard of that I work with a parole officer for the best possible outcome.”

“Maybe, but I saw the way he looked at you.”

“And somehow the way he looked at me means I’m crossing lines?”

“You went to hold his hand,” he says through clenched teeth.

“What?” Taylah’s voice breaks through.

“Yes,” I glare at both of them, “occasionally physical touch is comforting for people who hear life changing news.”

“Stop trying to twist what I say,” he argues.

“No, Joe. Stop trying to twist what I do. Everyone knows you hate this job, yet for some reason you’re still here. You treat your clients like b-grade citizens and your desire to help them to do better is non-existent. So, if by me being the opposite to you means I’m crossing lines, then I’m crossing fucking lines.” The tension spreads from my shoulders, up to my neck, and settles at my temples. My pulse hammers at either side of my head, the weight of my outburst sitting heavily between us.

“Whatever.” He looks at Taylah. “I know what I saw.”

He walks away, and the fight immediately leaves my body.

“Want to tell me what that was about?”

“Not right now, no.” I resume eating and ignore Taylah’s perceptive stare. For the first time in my life, Joe might be actually right. I haven’t stopped thinking about Jagger since I walked out of Goulburn. His eyes, his hands, his hurt, his heart. It’s on a continuous loop of intrigue and heartache for a man who has somehow become more than my job.

He wears his sins on his sleeves and carries the burden of his actions through every decision he makes. If he didn’t have to leave, I know he would stay there forever. Thinking the world is a better place without him.

The shrill ring from my desk phone pulls me out of my Jagger Michaels bubble. Taylah reaches for it before I do.

“Hello, Legal Aid. This is Emerson Lane’s phone.”

“Yes, she’s here. May I ask who’s calling?” I’ll just get her for you.” She hits the hold button, and hands me the phone.

“Who is it?

“A Hendrix Michaels?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“It’s my client’s brother.”

“Okay, take this call. But I want an update on what happened between you and Joe.” I nod and wave her away. Picking up the handset, I let myself get sucked back into the vortex of Jagger Michaels.

“Hello, Emerson Lane speaking.”

“Hi. This is Hendrix Michaels, I’m-”

“Jagger’s brother.” I finish.

“Yeah, he said if I had any questions regarding his release I could contact you.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Yeah, it was a shock to me, too.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like that.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“What can I help you with?”

“Well, I read up on what conditions are usually given upon release, and I wanted to make sure I can do whatever I need to give him a head start. “

“Um, do you have a pen and paper handy?”

“Yeah sure, let me get it.” The sound of papers shuffling echoes in the background while I wait. “Okay, I’m back.”

I glance at my computer and how detailed my notes are. “Mr Michaels, do you want to meet up for coffee instead?” I hear Joe’s warnings in the background, and push past my better judgement. I’m only doing the best for my client, right? “We can talk about it in more depth that way.”

“Yeah, just tell me when and where.”

“I can meet you this afternoon,” I proposition eagerly. “I can leave work a little early. Four sound okay?”

“No worries, I’ll just tie up some loose ends over here and meet you...”

“Oh, yes, sorry. How about at Mist Coffee? It’s just on Castlereagh, in between the Downing Centre and The Family Court.” It’s the most public and semi-professional place I can think of, and I know solicitors and clients meet there all day long.

“Okay, sweet,” he says. “I’ll see you at four.”

The call ends, and my hands begin to sweat unusually. I shake them out and head to the bathroom. Washing my face with cold water, I stare at my reflection and talk myself off the ledge. I’m piecing a family together. I’m helping someone who would otherwise let themselves drown into the system come up for air. Tugging the necklace from beneath my shirt, I kiss the stone and close my eyes. I hear my grandmother’s voice in my mind, leading me in the right direction.

Your head and your heart aren’t enemies; they’re long lost lovers desperate to be reunited. You don’t have to choose between the two.

* * *

“Can I order a caramel latte with two chocolate brownies, please?”

The barista tinkers around on the register, before acknowledging my order. “What name should I put that under?”

“Emerson, please.” I say with a saccharine smile.

“That’ll be ten dollars.”

“I got this. Do you mind if I add a short black to that order?”

Straightening her back, the young barista pays attention to the deep and unexpected voice behind me. A tattooed arm is stretched out beside me, grey script running up and down the muscled forearm.

“And what name should I put on that?” she asks, the flirty inflection in her voice an obvious change from her uninterested state earlier.

“Hendrix.”

I school my face, don a mask of professionalism, and turn to meet him. He seems to have already figured out who I am, his stance casual and laid-back, patiently waiting for my reaction.

Standing in front of me is the less-damaged and less-haunted version of Jagger. It’s like a punch in the gut, being reminded how two people can look exactly the same on the outside and be like night and day on the inside. Jagger’s emptiness is deafening in Hendrix’s presence.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry. I just didn’t...” I ramble through my nervousness and put my head down to avoid any further damage.

“Let’s grab a seat.” We manoeuvre through the wooden chairs and find a table at the back end of the shop, away from the whirling and buzzing of the coffee machines. He waits for me to take my seat before following suit.

Regaining my composure, I pull a pad of paper and a pen from my bag, placing it between us. “Let’s start again, shall we? I’m Emerson.”

“I’m Hendrix.” He holds out his hand. The friendliness he emanates surprsises and comforts me as I grip his hand. “Sorry for interrupting you at the register. I heard you say your name, and you looked the way Jagger described you. I just put the pieces together.”

“Oh.” I stop myself from asking him what he means, and change the subject. It doesn’t matter what Jagger said to him about me or why. “I’m sorry about my fumbling at the register. I didn’t realise you were twins.”

“Oh, that’s what it was?” He laughs, “We haven’t stumped anyone with our looks in ages.” His voice is nostalgic, and I give him a moment to take the mental trip down memory lane.

“I’m glad he finally called you.”

“Me too.” His jaw clenches the exact same way Jagger’s did, but while Jagger is full of anger, Hendrix is full of apprehension. “I didn’t think that call was ever going to come.”

I do a little victory dance inside knowing for whatever reason, Jagger listened to me and called his brother. “Have you gone to see him yet?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You must think I’m horrible.”

“Horrible definitely didn’t cross my mind,” I admit. “There’s a lot to consider in every circumstance; this one is no different. We’re all just learning as we go.”

“Jagger and I were rocky before he got locked up,” he reveals. “And for some reason he believes we would all be better off without him, that he deserves to stay in there until the eleventh hour.”

“Yes. I managed to pick up on that vibe when I saw him too, but lucky for you, I kindly informed him the choice wasn’t his. No matter how many reasons he gave me.”

“I’m impressed. You figured out the way his mind works pretty quickly.” He smirks while his eyes light up with mischief. I lower my head and avoid his all-knowing gaze on the unexplainable flush on my skin.

“I figured if I give him less reasons to argue with me, he’ll eventually come around and be happy about leaving,” he explains.

“And that’s exactly what we’re doing,” I reassure him. “The more solid the release plan, the less reasons he or any inmate has a reason to slip through the cracks.”

He cringes at the use of the word inmate, but I ignore it; professionalism imperative.

I scribble a list of words down the right hand side of the white lined paper. The word housing right at the top. “Okay, let’s start with the important stuff, where’s he going to live?”

“With me.”

“Okay, do you live by yourself? Married? Kids? Pets? Drugs? Guns?”

He hovers while I write, the pen and my mouth in sync, as I rattle off words faster than I can think them. I look up to see hazel eyes filled with hurt and regret, and acknowledge that this is about more than Jagger.

“I know you have to ask these questions, and with what happened, they’re logical. But for what it’s worth, that’s not how we are. That’s not the life we ever lived.”

“Hendrix. Please don’t think I’m judging you.” I plead. “The parole board are sticklers, and he can’t afford to get pulled up, no matter how minor it is. We just need to cover all our bases.”

“Okay,” he nods with a little more confidence. “I trust you.”

“Thank you. Now sell yourself to the parole board.” The mood a little lighter, I throw in some humour. “Tell me why it is in Jagger’s best interest to live with you.”

He taps his fingers against the wooden table top. “Well, I live by myself. No pets, unless you count the neighbour’s cat that occasionally finds herself roaming around in my house.”

“Employment?”

“I’m a Youth Work Coordinator for my local Police Citizens Youth Club.”

“That’s the PCYC, yeah?”

“Yep.” Writing down the details as he explains the work he does with disadvantaged youth, I butt in with my own responses when the occasion fits, multitasking as best as I can.

“Okay, the hardest thing will be him getting a job.”

Carefully balancing our hot beverages and the brownies on a tray, the waiter appears beside us, his facial expression apologetic for the interruption. “The short black?”

“That’s mine, thanks.” Raising his hand to the tray, he meets the waiter halfway, taking the drink from his shaky grasp.

“And that means the caramel latte goes over here.” The porcelain clinks on the wooden table as the plate of dessert is placed between us. “If you need anything else, just call out.”

“Thanks.” Adding sugar, I pour it in and stir before continuing, “if you know anywhere that’s hiring, that would take him on based on your recommendation alone, it would be ideal. But as long as he has a place to sleep and someone who will, for all intents and purposes provide him with a roof over his head and food in his mouth, it means he has less reasons to turn to shady behaviour to make some cash. Again,” I say with a warning tone, “this is the way the legal system approaches the situation, and I’m in no way implying this is the exact pattern of behaviour he’s going to follow.”

“I get it. I hate all of it, but I do understand.”

“I appreciate that. Now, when I met with Jagger there was lot we didn’t talk about. Namely his relationship with anyone from his past. In particular. Dakota.”

His back straightens, and the tapping on the table returns.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about his personal relationships. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask. Because I’m facilitating his release, everything I do is based on knowledge of the future, not what happened in the past.”

“Is saying it’s complicated enough?”

“I don’t want to know everything.” The lie feels like acid in my mouth as I manipulate the questions to my advantage. “What’s his relationship like with his daughter’s mother? Will he move in with her after he’s spent some time with you? Work on reconnecting the family?”

“Oh, it’s not that kind of relationship.”

“Because of what happened?”

“Look, the stuff with Sasha is Jagger’s story to tell, but I know he’s going to want to see his daughter.”

Changing approaches, I dive into the brutal reality of what his brother could be up against and leave my own motives behind. “Hendrix, I need to know if Sasha is going to let him see Dakota. Regardless of how much Jagger may want to wrong his rights, Sasha has sole custody of Dakota. That means what she says goes.”

He exhales loudly. “I don’t think she’ll stop him from seeing her, but I don’t know that for sure either.” He pauses, running his hand through hair. “One way or another, she’s definitely going to make him jump through hoops.”

“Is he going to jump?”

“For Dakota? Of course. But going by the last time Sasha and Jagger saw each other, I don’t predict an easy road.”

“Do they know he’s getting released?”

“I told Sasha, yes.”

“And Dakota?”

“For now It’s on a need-to-know basis. She doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage between her parents.”

“You’re a good uncle.”

He smiles at my praise, the conversation losing the tension.

“It’s easy. She’s a great kid.” He picks his phone up and taps away at the screen. “Speaking of, if I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late to take her out for dinner.”

“That’s ok, I understand. Sydney traffic is a bitch.”

Standing up, he reaches for his wallet and pulls out a business card. “I really appreciate your transparency,” he says, handing it to me. “Jagger wasn’t lying when he said you’d be willing to answer any questions I had.” My stomach flutters at the mere mention of his name. I take the card from his grip, and with a small smile I give Hendrix the words he wants to hear. Even if every one of them is a lie.

“He’s my client. I’d do the same for all of them.”