“Michaels, you got another visitor.”

I put my book down, and crane my neck up off my pillow. “Really?”

“I know, I’m as shocked as you are. Nobody for twelve years, and then bang last five weeks every Tom, Dick, and Harry wants to see you.”

I chuckle at his humour. Thompson has worked here longer than I’ve been here; always the diplomat, he could be your best friend and your worst enemy all at the same time.

“Don’t worry, only a few more days and I’ll be out of your hair.” Swinging my legs off the bed, I put the bookmark in between the pages and leave it beside my pillow.

“Things are going to be different,” he says a little too seriously.

I meet him at the entrance of my cell. “For you and me both.” His hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “You did good in here, son.”

Appreciative of the faith strangers have put in me over the years, I nod, accepting the compliment. “Good.” His voice booms, changing the mood. “You’re on the home stretch now. Once you step out of these doors, don’t you ever look back. I never want to see your ugly fucking mug again.”

“Don’t worry, I’m never stepping foot in here again.”

We arrive at the visiting room doors, and I wait for the officers to exchange their daily dose of trivial banter before allowing me to walk on in.

Having already broken the tension with Hendrix, and getting used to seeing Emerson, I’m completely caught off guard when my eyes zero in on Sasha sitting alone in the large, empty room. She nervously chews on her bottom lip, a habit that hasn’t changed with time.

Refusing to answer my calls, and with no update from Hendrix, I realise she must’ve spoken to Emerson. I slow down my strides and take in the change of the girl I left and the woman she’s become. She wears her hair shorter now. Just above her shoulders, the loose curls a blend of honey and white blonde. As I slowly come into view, her eyes fill with tears every step I get closer. Covering her face with one hand, she begins to quietly sob. Shoulders hunched and shaking, I fall to her side, kneeling on the floor. “Please stop crying,” I beg.

“Michaels. Arse on chair. First and final,” the guard bellows.

Begrudgingly, I shuffle back and take a seat opposite of her. She continues to suffer in silence while my only choice is to watch. Folding her arms on the table, she leans her head down in the crook of her elbow and attempts to regulate her breathing. My heart aches as the crying eventually turns into hiccups. Sasha crying has always been a trigger for me. It’s intrinsic; I just want to fix it. Growing up it became harder when I was often the reason for her tears. Just like right now.

“Sash, look at me please.”

“I can’t,” she mumbles. “It’s too much.”

“Okay, well how about I take my turn first?” I don’t even bother waiting for an answer. For more than five thousand days, the first conversation I’d have with Sasha since getting put away has always been the forefront of my mind. I’ve got a lot to say, words that are too little too late, but need to be said anyway. “When I used to imagine this moment, I used to think I’d apologise and beg for forgiveness. Until I realised an apology doesn’t change anything, and forgiveness isn’t something I deserve.” My voice shakes, forcing me to try and compose myself. “I foolishly thought being in here was the punishment, but now that leaving is a reality, it’s impossible to ignore how much I’ve missed out on. Almost enough to be completely forgotten.”

She raises her head and straightens up. Wiping her nose and eyes with the edge of her sleeve, I’m momentarily distracted, taking in the depth of her red-rimmed eyes. Love and pain, side by side, unable to look anywhere but me.

“I was so angry at you, you know? I turned into ice, thinking about it every day. Every fucking day, like a movie, I let it play out, and then I would let it fuel my hate for you.” She punctuates all the right words, and I let the pain of her loathing wash over me. This isn’t about absolution, no matter how much my subconscious seeks it. “I was so sure I fucking hated you. And now I’m here, and you’re sitting in front of me and-” she raises her shoulders in a shrug. “How the fuck did we get here?” The rhetorical question cracks any semblance of balance between talking and crying.

“Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”

“Will we, though? Because I don’t know if I’m ready to see you all the time. Out of sight, out of mind. I liked it that way.”

“I’m at your mercy here, Sash. I’m fine with you calling the shots on when, where, and how, but-”

“Dakota,” she cuts me off. “I know. Why else do you think I’m here?”

“I know it’s going to take me forever to make it up to her, but I at least want the fucking chance.”

“That’s why I’m here. I spoke to your solicitor.”

“And?” I raise my eyebrows expectantly, itching to hear what Emerson said and what made Sasha change her mind.

“She wanted to know if I was going to stop you from seeing Dakota and if I would take any legal action against you about it.”

“That’s all?”

“She’s pro-Jagger, that’s for sure.”

“It’s her job,” I smirk.

“I wanted to see you first. I don’t know what I expected to gain from it, but it made me feel in control of the situation.” Exhaling loudly, her breath still hitches from earlier. “I wanted to see you before I let you see her.”

“You don’t have to justify protecting her.”

“I know. I just thought it was fair to be honest with you. I can promise that we’ll work this out away from the courts, but I don’t know anything past that. I guess we can wait till you’re settled in and set something up?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’re only just getting started.”

* * *

I’ve been pacing around in this room they call purgatory for hours, a little alcove between the entrance into the cells and the exit outside. The day is finally here, and my heart has been thrashing around my rib cage for hours. I can’t sit still. I can’t focus. I don’t think I’m ready.

The door opens, Thompson walking in holding a plastic bag.

I stop. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

“I come here bearing gifts.”

“Gifts?”

“Clothes. You’re not going to walk out of here wearing that.”

“Hm.” I look down and then back at the man who deserves angel wings for putting up with all of us in here. “I guess I didn’t think that through.”

“Get dressed. and then you’re ready.”

“I don’t think I am.”

He hands me the bag. “That’s the problem, son.” Standing in the doorway, he looks back at me. “Today, you don’t think. You just do.”

I push my legs through the jeans, overwhelmed by the scratch of denim on my skin. Pulling the zipper up, I button the waistband together, take a seat, and close my eyes. I’m about to have a meltdown over fucking jeans.

A knock on the door almost goes unnoticed, until I see locks of brown hair walking toward me. I stand up to meet Emerson, shocked at how much solace her presence gives me.

“Are you almost ready?” she asks. Frozen and unable to speak, I nod. Avoiding my eyes, she looks behind me, and finds the bag of clothes Thompson brought in. Stepping around, she grabs the navy and white checkered shirt and hands it to me. “Put this on over your t-shirt.”

Sliding each arm in, I try and fix the way it sits as best I can without a mirror.

“Here, let me do it.”

Directly in front of one another, her breath mingles with mine, speaking their own language of anxiety and anticipation. She folds over the collar and straightens out the material. Her fingertips graze my skin and I forget how to breathe.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

Like an idiot, I nod, again. Hands circle my biceps and make their way down to the cuff of the shirt. Slowly she rolls the sleeve up to my elbows and moves to the other one.

The motions are simple, things that people take for granted daily. But between Emerson and I it’s intimate.

Monumental.

With every touch, I feel the scars of my isolation come to the surface and the tangible fear of not being able to survive beyond these four walls.

“What are you doing here?” I say, finding my voice.

Pulling back, she finally has the courage to look at me. Her gaze strokes my skin, and for the first time her desire is unreserved and obvious. “I wasn’t going to miss watching you walk out of here.”

“I don’t think I can do this," I confess.

Holding her hand up in the air, she looks at me expectantly. I mimic her actions and let my palm touch hers. She takes it as an invitation to slip her fingers through mine.

I squeeze her hand, like she might disappear in any moment. Holding my gaze, she squeezes it right back. “You’ve got this, Jagger. Life’s waiting for you to live it.”

“I’ve got this,” I repeat.

“Ready?”

“As, I’ll ever be.”

She unlatches her hand from mine, and the separation is poignant and painful.

“Let’s go.”

Professional mask on, she walks outside unaffected, the switch unnerving. I follow her through a door that leads us to an office with an older lady sitting behind a desk lined with what looks like a million papers.

“Hello, Mr. Michaels.”

“Hi.”

“If you could take a seat.”

I do as she asks, and she turns all the papers to face me. She hands me a pen. “Now, please read through all these papers and then sign when required. Once that’s all done, I will make you a copy, and you, young man, are free to go.”

Free. Free. Free.

The word is on repeat in my head as I scour every line. I leave no page unturned, no paragraph unread. I sign my name six times, and with each scrape of the pen, the little voice inside my head gets somewhat louder.

Get ready Jagger, you’re going home.