10-Sadie

This is a terrible idea.

I could still catch the Lyft driver.

When Christian called requesting to see me, my instincts said to tell him to fuck off, but hearing the desperation and panic in his voice is why I'm standing in front of a tan-brown building protected by steel beams and mesh topped with razor wire. Several officers guard the front gate and the watchtower and stroll inside the perimeter of the fence with their hands on their firearms, ready to use them if necessary. The inmates in the yard are all clad in light blue uniforms with white sneakers. Some are playing basketball, another group is lifting weights, and others are sitting on metal benches.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, I put one foot in front of the other and approach the iron gates.

Once I pass the front entrance, an officer uses a wand and scans me from head to toe.

"Go ahead." He motions toward the double doors with a quick nod.

When I reach the lady officer behind the front desk, she gives me a look of indifference.

Glancing from side to side, trying to settle my nerves, I take another deep breath. "I'm here to see someone."

"Set your purse on this counter"—she points to the gray bin on the lower part of her desk beside her— "and empty all the contents from your pockets."

I do as she says.

"Wear this." She hands me a visitor name badge. "And sign in."

I grab the pen on the clipboard and sign my name.

"Who are you here to see?"

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Christian Cruz."

She nods. "You have twenty minutes with the inmate."

I follow her to the steel bars that separate us from the visiting room. The bars open when she scans her badge. "Go on," she presses.

"She's here to see Christian Cruz," she tells the officer guarding the door that leads into the room.

He tips his head at her and opens the door for me.

"Twenty minutes," he reminds me.

"Is there a specific table I should sit at?" I ask in a low tone.

"Nope." He slams the door behind me, making me flinch.

Asshole.

I briefly close my eyes, searching for my inner strength. "I can do this." I repeat the mantra until I find the courage and sit my ass down at one of the tables in the room.

I glance around the room and notice a handful of families sitting at tables with inmates. There are twelve round white tables with three backless seats connected to the table and rooted into the floor.

While I wait for Christian, I glance around the room since I don't know where else to look. There are several security cameras in each corner of the room. One female officer sits behind a podium near the door, and two officers walk throughout the room. The walls are neutral, with three windows on one of the walls, allowing natural light to beam inside the room, oddly creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. It's nothing like what I've seen on TV.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens, and in walks Christian. His hands are cuffed in front of him as an officer walks beside him. Christian glances around the room until his eyes land on me. I sit up straighter, hands clasped on the table, trying to slow down my heart rate. The last time I was in the same room with him, I was tied to the ceiling, tortured, and degraded for two weeks. I can still smell the sweat, blood, and the urine as it seeped down my legs. I shake the terrible memory from my mind.

Christian's eyes never leave my face as he approaches me. He gives me a warm smile like he used to when things were good between us.

"Twenty minutes," the officer says without looking at either of us. He inserts the silver key into the cuffs and unlocks them. Christian rubs his wrists as he glances over his shoulder at the officer walking away.

He turns his dark brown eyes back to me with a small smile and sits across from me, keeping his hands on his lap.

"Thank you for coming." His tone comes out husky with uncertainty.

His hair is shorter, buzz cut like he's in the military. Has he always been this fit? He was in good shape when we were together, but his muscles, especially his biceps, are well-defined.

Damn him. I still find him attractive, but he doesn't make my heart flutter or the butterflies make waves in my belly. The slit on his eyebrow and his plump lips were my weakness, but now only one man can make me feel weak in the knees. And he will kill me when he finds out I'm meeting my ex.

"You're overthinking." His deep voice breaks through my thoughts.

"Why am I here, Christian?" I ask, ignoring his comment.

He sighs and looks over his shoulder, then back to me. "You need to watch your back. That shit that went down at the warehouse is just the beginning."

"Beginning of what? How can things get any worse?"

He leans in, resting his arms on the table, and I move back. I catch the flinch in his eyes, but it goes away as quickly as it came.

"Last summer, I was hired by the Romano brothers. The job was supposed to be easy—in and out. I would make enough money to settle down and move to Florida like you wanted. Do you remember our plans?"

"I'm not interested in going down memory lane, Christian. Just tell me what I need to know so I can go."

I can't help but feel bad when he casts his eyes to the table, sadness etched on his stupid beautiful face.

"I'm sorry. Anyway, Frankie, Manny, me, and Mickey were supposed to transport bricks of cocaine that were worth over 250 grand. We had to transport five loads. Two-hundred-fifty was going to be divided by all five of us. But something went wrong. Manny and Mickey got greedy and stole several bricks. The two stupid pendejos thought they could get away with it, but they were so wrong."

Christian rubs his hands down his face. "They were punished."

"You mean they were killed?"

He nods.

"That's why they never came back with you and Frankie." I say it like a statement. I didn't ask questions when Manny and Mickey didn't return. It wasn't my place, and I knew it had to be bad, knowing the illegal shit they were into.

He nods again.

"What does this have to do with me?"

His eyes are somber when he looks at me. "Frankie and I had to pay for their fuck up. We were beaten, starved, and I went months without my medications."

Oh, God.

"You know what happens when I'm off my meds."

Yes, I do. Christin has bipolar and schizoaffective disorder. I got front seats to his first manic episode. His mom had lost her job and lost the health insurance that covered his medications and sessions with the psych doctor. She applied for state assistance, but Christian had already run out of his meds by the time she was approved. He begged drug dealers for scraps, but it was too late. Christian went postal and tore up his room apart until everything was destroyed. He beat his mom so badly that she was sent to the hospital. When she recovered, she packed up and left without Christian. That's when Christian moved in with Frankie. He was heartbroken that his mother abandoned him once he received treatment and was stable. He searched everywhere for her but was not able to locate her. Several months later, the cops arrived at the house and told him they had found his mother murdered in a crack house. Christian was just a sophomore when all this shit went down. An ache settled in my chest at seeing him fall apart, knowing the beating resulted from not being properly medicated. It was out of his control. Was it excusable? No, but it was enough for the judge not to charge him with assault.

"Is that why you were a different person when you came back?"

He slowly nods, and his eyes are glassy. "They forced me to take the coke." A tear slips, and he quickly wipes it away. "I got fucked up and became an addict."

His tone is full of shame and regret, but it doesn't erase what he's done. That can never be undone, no matter how often he apologizes or begs for forgiveness.

"I never would've—" he sucks in a breath— "never would've hurt you. I will never forgive myself."

I don't realize I am crying until I feel something wet on my face.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

His eyes are laced with pain, and the torment in his voice sounds like he's in physical pain.

He looks devastated, just how he looked at the warehouse. It's as if something suddenly clicked in his brain that he was causing me pain. When I first met Christian, he was a smooth talker and a ladies' man. Girls were jealous of how much attention he was giving me. The first time we met was in middle school in gym class. He said my Nike shoes were "dope." I had a crush on him for the longest time until we became an item at the beginning of high school. He never raised his voice or verbally or physically abused me. He was the perfect boyfriend. I probably would've married him, but that was before he changed and my Donnie came back to me.

It doesn't matter if I forgive him; the damage has already been done. He broke me into a million pieces the first time he laid his hands on me. The images of his abuse replay in my mind like a horror movie. I didn't consider myself an abuse victim until his fist connected with my face the first time, the second, then the third, and many more times after. At one time, he made me feel safe. He protected me from the shit he was dealing with and ensured it didn't touch me.

I shake the memories away and return my focus to him. "If you're so sorry, then what the hell was the warehouse bullshit?" I feel my anger boiling in my blood.

Christian swallows a gulp and licks his lips. "They threatened to kill you if we didn't continue working with him. When I was released from jail, I really wanted to explain what happened that summer, but then I saw you with—" He turns away from me, working his jaw as if trying to keep it together.

"I was angry and jealous that someone took what was mine," he says with his eyes fixated on the white tiles.

When he looks back at me, his face softens. "After the accident, I was forced to leave the city and move products from one state to another. That's when I saw your father. I overheard the men say that he sold you. That fucked with my head, so I found a dealer in Chicago who was able to hook me up with my meds. I wasn't 100 percent lucid, but just enough to know what was happening and how much I fucked up."

He pauses to catch his breath before he continues.

"I didn't know you were brought to the warehouse until I was asked to meet Frankie. I had to pretend to be part of their twisted game. When I saw you hanging from the ceiling, it took everything in me not to put a bullet in Frankie's head," he says through clenched teeth.

"Were you aware that my dad was part of whatever fucked up" — I wave my hand in the air— "arrangement he had with the Romano brothers?"

Christian covers his lips with his fingers to shush me and glances side to side to catch if anyone is listening.

"No, I didn't know that."

"Did you also know that my brother was killed? I'm guessing it has to do with them trying to get to me?"

I'm not 100 percent sure, but it would make the most sense.

"Fuck," he says under his breath. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his eyes with his fists. "I didn't know that."

The tears that have formed in my eyes are causing my vision to blur. Using brother and killed in the same sentence guts me. When I close my eyes, I see my brother lying lifeless on a cold slab.

"Sadie, I'm so sorry. I— "

I open my eyes to see tears falling down his face. Part of me is happy to see him suffering, but my stupid heart won't let me hate him.

We sit and stare at each other. As I look at him, I wonder how we got here. We were young and in love doing normal teenage stuff, and then it changed into lies, guns, drugs, kidnapping, and death.

After some time, Christian clears his throat. "I wanted you to know I'm keeping my ears open here. Some of the guys who worked for them are on the same block as me. I'll find a way to get you the information you need to keep you safe."

After a pause, he speaks again.

"Can I see her?"

"Are you out of your mind? I can't bring her here. You just said I was in danger. Who's knows if the brothers have spies or corrupted cops under his payroll?" I seethe.

"They won't hurt her, I promise."

I lean forward with a strong urge to slap him across his face. "Your words mean nothing to me. The moment you put your hands on me was when I lost trust in you and anything you had to say." I lean back and watch as an expression of anguish crosses his face.

He swallows and nods. "She's beautiful. She looks like you."

I don't say a word; I just stare at him. I want him to see the anger in my eyes for all the pain he has caused me. Movement over Christian's shoulder catches my attention. The guard glances at the clock behind him and then back to me.

"We're running out of time," I say, returning to him.

"You'll never know how much I hate myself for doing all those things to you. It broke me."

"You broke me first, Christian."

"I know." He sniffles.

"What did you expect to happen between us? Did you honestly think I would forget what you did to me because you"re back on your meds and pretending nothing happened?"

"No. I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I fucked up…bad. I just needed you to know how sorry I am and how much I loved you."

I turn away from him and focus on a little girl sitting on her father's lap, laughing and smiling as if he's her hero. Maybe Christian seeing and holding his daughter will remind him of what he lost and that he can have a relationship with her. I know deep down he would never hurt her. I saw the affection in his eyes when he asked about her.

"Is he treating you well?"

I meet his gaze. "Yes." I don't have to ask him who he is referring to. I already know.

"That's good." He nods. "I'm glad. You deserve to be treated like a queen. Like a true Reina."

"Time's up, Cruz," the officer says coolly. Christian stands at his command and holds his wrists out for the handcuffs.

"Thank you for coming to see me. Stay safe." His tone is soft and kind.

I watch as he walks away from me.

"I'll think about bringing Sophia," I call out. Christian looks back, and his smile widens, tears glistening in his eyes.

He nods and walks away.

I follow suit and grab my belongings and walk out the front doors. I open the Lyft app on my phone for a ride when a deep angry voice halts me in place.

"You shouldn't walk and text."