Page 87 of Dying to Meet You

“Let’s,” she says with a sniff.

31

Rowan

Why am I doing this?

I ask myself that several times on the short drive to the county jail. And I ask it again as I coast slowly through the crowded parking lot, looking for the last spot.

When I finally get out of the car, I see entire families trooping together to the doors.

How depressing.

Trudging toward the entrance, I size up the jail. It’s a low, two-story building that sprawls like a high school. Same institutional bulk. Same half-assed brick facade, with some clunky stone cladding that needs a good wash.

There must be architects who focus exclusively on jail design. Now there’s a weird specialty.

Following the signs for the visitors’ area, I have my first shiver of déjà vu. Fifteen years ago, I walked through this same corridor and passed through these same metal detectors, only to be told that Harrison wouldn’t see me.

Distraught, I’d questioned the man at the desk. His response was brisk but kind.It happens, ma’am. Sometimes they don’t want you to see ’em like this.

Harrison never did let me visit. He only saw my parents. And only to sign away his rights to his child.

Now I’m back in the same spot, showing my driver’s license and answering security questions. Submitting my wallet for inspection.

I’m glad Natalie isn’t here to see this. The gray walls. The scuffed doors. The hornets’ buzz of locked doors open electronically as I’m led deeper into the building.

The visitors’ room reminds me of high school—it’s like a cafeteria with long tables and plastic chairs. But these tables have a wooden divider in the center, separating the inmates from the visitors.

There are rules posted everywhere.NO CONTRABAND. BRIEF TOUCHING ONLY. STAY ON YOUR OWN SIDE OF THE TABLE.

“Have a seat, ma’am,” I’m told. I pick a deserted table and sink into a chair.

Before Harrison’s first arrest, I thought our little team was just going through a rough patch, and that our love would go the distance.

Now I’m sitting here in this grungy room, waiting to speak to the potentially violent stranger I once loved more than anyone.

A door on the back wall buzzes open, and every head turns. Two guards enter first, and the one with a gray buzz cut speaks. “Good afternoon. Remember the rules—brief contact only. Stay on your side of the table. Passing contraband to a prisoner is a punishable crime.”

He steps aside and the prisoners begin to file in. My stomach lurches.

“Daddy!” shouts a little voice from somewhere behind me. My throat closes up.

If Harrison hadn’t cut me off after his arrest, that might have been us—visiting Daddy on the weekends in prison.

A dozen men—and they’re all men—file into the room, but Harrison isn’t among them. Then the door swings shut again.For the love of God.Again?

I’m shoving my chair away from the table when the door suddenly opens to admit one more man. And there he is. He’s unshaven, and he’s wearing orange prison garb, but it’s Harrison, looking not all that different from the young man I used to know.

My stomach gives an unwelcome little flutter.

Harrison glances immediately in my direction, drawn to me like a magnet. I take a gulp of air as he heads my way, unsmiling.

All around me, families lean across tables and embrace, voices rising as everyone begins talking at once.

My face is stony, though, as he arrives across the table. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I manage. “Take a seat.”