If I Could Do It Again (4 page)

It takes me three weeks, three long, frustrating weeks to get the phone accounts set up.

When I decided to do it, I figured it would be easy. Something as simple as giving Joshua my number. As it turns out, nothing is easy when it comes to dealing with the prison system. I had to get a U.S. number because inmates in Pennsylvania aren’t allowed to call outside the country, and then I had to set-up a prepaid calling account for collect calls and register my number.

Sounds pretty simple, right? Well, trust me, it’s not. I’ve never had to jump through so many hoops in my life.

But even frustrating, these last three weeks have still been … amazing. My world has been wrapped up in letters. Sweet, sweet letters from a killer.

Okay, maybe Richard is right. Maybe I am romanticizing things, but I don’t care. The truth is, I’ve never been this freakin’ happy.

Never.

And any day now, Joshua will be receiving the letter with my new Pennsylvania number.

It’s sunny this afternoon, and Richard is home. It’s Saturday, and as far as I can tell he’s home for the weekend. I’m sitting on the couch with my laptop, trying to get a handle on my emails and clean up my inbox, when he thumps down the stairs.

“You want to go out?” he asks, pausing in the living room entryway. “I feel like getting some lunch, maybe taking a drive down to Peggy’s Cove.”

I shake my head quickly, keeping my eyes on my emails. “I’m just going to make something here and work.”

“Come on, Vic. It’s the weekend and I haven’t been home in a month.”

Pulling my gaze away from my laptop, I glance up at him. He’s dressed in jeans today and his neatly pressed button up blue and green striped shirt is untucked with the top three buttons open. He’s watching me, his expression almost pleading, as he takes a couple steps toward me. It’s the same look he gave me the day I finally gave in and went on a date with him nearly three years ago. He was so persistent back then, asking me out every single time he came into the pub I worked at. I’d waited months to go out with him, because he was intimidating to me. So sure of himself, so … impressively confident, and I could never understand why he wanted a waitress like me.

I still don’t.

“Please, Vic,” he says when I say nothing. “Spend some time with me. You promised you’d try.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mutter eventually, because he’s right. I promised I’d try, though at this moment, I have no idea why I made such an absurd promise. “Lunch and then right back here. I really do have to work today.”

Grinning, Richard turns away. “I’ll meet you in the car,” he says as he walks toward the front door. “Don’t take long.”

Pressing my fingers to my closed eyes, I let out a groan of frustration. I need to write the back cover story for my current work in progress and book a cover reveal tour. That’s what I’d planned on doing today, but he sounded so sincere, like he really wants to spend time with me …

Ugh … When did I become so gullible?

Setting my computer down on the coffee table, I get up and make my way upstairs to change. Discarding my yoga pants and tee, I slip on my favorite sunflower printed baby-blue summer dress and a cute pair of ankle laced sandals. I let my hair down, running my fingers through it a few times. It’s wavy from being tied up all day, but I don’t have time to fix it, so I quickly pull it back up, twisting it into a French knot. I swipe some gloss onto my lips, and quickly put on some eyeliner and shadow, before rushing back downstairs and venturing out of the house.

I find Richard sitting in his Lamborghini Elemento, fiddling with the radio. God, I think that car is ugly, but I get in anyway and he speeds off to Starbucks, pulling into the drive-thru. He orders me a large coffee, with one milk and one sugar, surprising me when he remembers what I like—he never remembers—and he orders a black coffee for himself. He pays, handing me my drink, and then he starts driving once more, heading toward Peggy’s Cove.

The conversation is strained at best. I try filling the silence with random chit-chat, but he pretty much shuts me down on every topic, only supplying small grunts or one-word responses, and after about ten minutes, I give up, staring out the window instead.

Minutes pass. The silence is nice, peaceful, and the view, beautiful, and I—surprisingly—find myself enjoying the drive.

And then my phone rings, shattering the quiet moment.

Digging my phone out of my purse, I glance at the caller display, seeing a Pennsylvania number flashing on the screen. My heart races and my stomach clenches tight.
It’s Joshua.
I stare at the phone for a beat. Now that he’s calling, I’m not sure I’m truly ready to talk to him.

“Who is it?” Richard asks.

His voice startles me, and I jump a little in my seat.
Shit.
I totally forgot about him. I shake my head quickly. “I think it’s Joshua.”

Richard frowns, cutting me a sideways look. “Answer it.”

My face flushes. I really, really don’t want to talk to him in front of Richard. “No, it’s fine. I’m sure he’ll call back later.”

“Really, I don’t mind. Take the call, Vic.”

“No,” I say again, this time louder. “I don’t want to talk to him for the first time with you sitting beside me. It’s kind of uncomfortable.”

He laughs once, a dry, bitter sound that makes my stomach clench—hard. “Yeah, I guess talking to your new boyfriend in front of your husband would be awkward.”

My face burns hotter, the heat, spreading down my neck, and I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a friend.”

The ringing stops and silence falls.

Five, ten, fifteen seconds pass.

My phone chimes, indicating a new voicemail.

“If he’s just a friend,” Richard says, “you would have answered it.”

I’m not really sure what to say to that, so I merely lift a shoulder in a one-sided shrug, and slip my phone back into my purse.

And then, it rings again.

“He’s calling again?” Richard asks.

I pull it back out and look at the screen, seeing the same Pennsylvania number flash there, and I shrug. “I guess so.”

Richard’s eyes narrow as he watches me silence the call. “Just answer it and tell him you’re busy.”

I don’t answer it. Instead, I turn off the ringer, and put my phone back into my purse. Retrieving my electronic cigarette, I settle back into the seat, taking a drag and then a long sip from my coffee. I really freakin’ hope he tries again later.

Eventually, we arrive at the restaurant, though Richard takes his time about it, turning the typical forty-five-minute drive into an hour and a half. The hostess seats us at a window table that offers a perfect view of the lighthouse. We order and we eat, though we scarcely talk, and by the time we finish our lunch I’m dying to get back home, wishing I’d never agreed to go out in the first place.

The drive home is just as strained as lunch, the conversation, minimal. As soon as we get there, I go to my office, shutting the door and opening the curtains. The sun is still shining, and the natural light feels warm against my skin as it beats through the window. I sit down at my desk, turning the ringer on my phone back on, and then open up my current work in progress with the intention of getting ahead on it. I end up abandoning it, though, curling up in my chair with a book when I realize I’m not getting anywhere.

And then … I fall asleep.

I’m awakened much later by my phone ringing. My office is cloaked in darkness, a soft glow creeping in from under the door. Reaching for my phone, I pick it up and glance at the screen.

Joshua.

My heart stalls, and then races. I answer it tentatively. “Hello?”

I’m greeted with a recording, advising me that an inmate is calling, and informing me that all calls are recorded and monitored. I’m shaky, and jittery, waiting for the long drawn-out message to end. Finally, I’m prompted to accept the call. My finger is trembling with an equal mix of nerves and excitement as I pull the phone from my ear and I press the button. There’s a pause of silence and then another recording advising that the call is being connected and it feels as though it drags on forever, before his voice finally breaks through. “Hey, beautiful. What’s good?”

His voice isn’t deep, but it isn’t high either and he’s speaking fast, the words slurring together. He sounds … excited? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s excitement I’m hearing in his voice.

I’m grinning, my cheeks stretched so much they hurt. “Hey. It’s so good to finally hear your voice.”

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I’m just working,” I say, not wanting to admit that I was in fact napping in the middle of the day. “Sorry I missed your calls earlier. I’m really glad you called back.”

He lets out a laugh, the easy, carefree sound making me smile and easing some of my nerves. “No problem. I’m really excited to be talking to you. My heart was racing when I dialed your number. It still is.”

I stall at those words, my heart skipping a beat at his admission. “It was? It is?”

“Yeah, beautiful, it is,” he confirms.

Heat colors my cheeks and I reach for my electronic cigarette, taking a quick puff. “I … I don’t know what to say to that.”

He laughs again, this time a bit louder. “You don’t have to say anything.” There’s a quick pause, and then, “Are you smoking? I didn’t realize you were a smoker.”

My eyes fall to the device in my hand. “I … uh, I’m using an electronic cigarette. I’ve been trying to quit, but I still smoke the real thing, too. Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” he says bluntly. “It’s disgusting, not to mention bad for you. You should quit.”

“I’m trying,” I say again, nervously. “That’s why I have the electronic cigarette.”

“Good,” he says. “So, tell me about your day.”

I blink, hesitating. He wants to know about my day? I rack my brain, trying to think of something—anything—exciting to tell him, but I draw a blank.

“It was kind of boring,” I tell him. “I don’t really do much … ever.”

“It’s not boring,” he says. “Your life’s exciting to me. You get to do whatever you want.”

“Okay.” I hesitate, trying to think of something interesting to tell him, but all that comes out is, “I went for lunch in Peggy’s Cove, then hid in my office. I tried to work, and totally failed at it, and ended up falling asleep reading.”

My response makes him laugh.

“See,” I say, “I told you my life was boring.”

“It’s not boring, Victoria. It’s perfect, just like you are.”

I giggle—yes, giggle—at that. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saying I’m perfect,” I say, feeling my face heating again. “That was … sweet.”

“No problem, beautiful.”

The moment he calls me beautiful, my face lights up with a wide smile. “Your turn. Tell me all about your day. I want to know everything.”

He rambles on, speaking so quickly that I only catch every few words, but I don’t care. I love talking to him, or rather listening to him talk. I’m not sure what I expected, but this upbeat and overly excited man is not it.

Every few minutes a recording plays, stalling our conversation. A constant reminder that the call is being recorded and monitored, making me even more nervous. I think he knows it, too, because he’s only asking me easy questions to answer, and he’s not leaving any awkward silences on the line. I kind of love him for it.

He’s talking about his family, and I can hear the love and devotion in his voice, when suddenly another recording, this one different from the others says, “You have one minute left.”

My heart sinks all the way to my toes. I didn’t realize these calls were timed and I’m nowhere near ready to get off the phone with him. Actually, I think I could talk to him all day long.

“Can I call you again?” he asks, his tone hesitant as though he’s not sure if he should be asking.

“Sure,” I respond right away. “Call me anytime you want.”

“Okay, I’ll call you right back.”

I’m about to say okay when I hear a recording say, “The caller has hung up.”

And then, my phone rings again.

****

Days pass by.

Days full of phone calls.

Days full of laughter.

Days full of letters.

Richard goes back to work, flying out to the head office in Toronto this time, and Joshua and I fall into a routine. And my life … well, it begins to revolve around our fifteen-minute phone calls.

We talk about everything, from childhood memories, to work, to his case. We talk about food, friends, and family. We tell each other stories, divulging our most embarrassing moments, trying to one-up each other. We chat about movies, talk about first kisses and first dates. Joshua grills me on everything and anything, as though he won’t rest until he knows every single one of my secrets.

And the days … they just keep slipping by, melting into one another.

It’s Monday, and at nine-thirty in the morning, I’m still in bed. It’s raining outside, pouring actually, and I feel like hell. My throat hurts, my nose is running, and I’ve got a killer headache.

My phone rings as I’m lying there. I reach over to the nightstand, snatching it up and glancing at the screen to see Joshua’s number. Sniffling, I answer it, waiting through the long recording and accepting the call.

“How’s my beautiful angel doing?”

Sighing, I mutter, “Hey.”

He’s silent for a moment. “You okay, baby girl?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You sound like fucking shit.”

His response makes a hoarse laugh rumble up my throat. “Thanks.”

“That’s your awkward laugh,” he says. “What’s wrong? What did I say to make you laugh like that?”

“How do you know my laughs?” I ask, trying not to smile, but one cracks my face. Geez, this man …

“I just know,” he says seriously. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known you all my life.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, baby, really.” He pauses for a beat. “Now tell me what that laugh was about.”

“I don’t really know,” I say. “You just make me nervous sometimes, I guess.”

He lets out a deep sigh. My answer obviously doesn’t reassure him either. Changing the subject, he says, “I’ve been thinking that you should come visit me … if you want to. No pressure, but I’d really like to meet you.”