Carry You Home (Carry Your Heart #2) (31 page)

It'll just make me miss you more.

Love you always,

Caleb

.
     
.
     
.

Isabelle

Six months later

This was a terrible idea. Necessary, sure. But headed straight for disaster.

I'd been fine with it right up until I was sitting at the bar, waiting for my date to show up. I'd been calm and collected as I drove here, making sure to text my dad to let him know I was really going through with it. He didn't believe me and given the circumstances, I couldn't exactly blame him.

But the second I sat down on the stool and ordered a drink, my chest tightened like a vice, sucking what little air was left right out of my lungs. It was like all the agitation, unrest, and torrential heartbreak seeping through every crack in my heart threatened to implode. The weight of that implosion would break me completely and my eyes darted around anxiously for a route to the fastest exit.

Before I had a chance to make a clean getaway, a guy dressed in jeans and a polo shirt approached me.

"Hey, Isabelle!" he called out to me, his green eyes filling with genuine hope and anticipation.

"Hi," I pressed a tight smile across my lips when his face lit up.

"I'm so glad we finally decided to do this," he told me as he closed in on me.

My eyes narrowed a little.
Finally
? And I didn't like the way the word,
we,
rolled off his tongue so comfortably. I'd known Alex in passing for a few months mainly through the coffee shop where both of us got our daily dose of caffeine in the morning. Through some small talk, a few too many run-ins, and more than a little persistence on his part, I'd agreed to meet him out for a drink. I hadn't wanted to say yes, but I also felt like I couldn't say no either. This was an opportunity to try again, to really start over, and like my dad always said, I had to start somewhere.

Alex was, for all intents and purposes, the exact opposite of Caleb. Clean-cut, preppy, no leather in sight..the only reason I'd agreed to this in the first place was because Alex was exactly the type of guy Caleb wanted me to end up with. That thought alone sent a rush of nausea right through my stomach.

Our conversation started off awkwardly after he ordered himself a beer and hopped up on the stool next to me at the bar. He prompted me with a few generic questions about school and all I could think was:
you're not Caleb.

When he asked me if I wanted another drink, I almost said, "You're not Caleb."

As he asked earnestly about my upcoming gallery showing—something I now seriously regretted telling him during one of our random 'run-ins', which I suspected weren't really that random—all I could think about was how Caleb wasn't going to be there...and Alex just wasn't Caleb.

Well-intentioned and well-meaning, but not the person I really wanted to be sitting next to.

It was around that time the nausea and utter horror of my situation sent me high-tailing it to the ladies' room and I threw my head in the toilet where I dry-heaved for a good five minutes. When my stomach finally stopped rolling long enough to let me to slide down to the ground, I leaned heavily against the divider, trying not to think about the stickiness underneath me. This was never going to end. Why the hell did I ever think it could?

Life after Caleb didn't even seem like a possibility anymore. This wasn't actual living. This was just existing.

My fingers brushed my stomach and tears stung my eyes.

I was completely pathetic. Pining away for a guy who didn't want me. Still loving him and still hurting because of him. Still wishing everything could've been different for us. And it didn't matter that he'd already been gone for 10 months and that he kept writing and started calling, too, because it was over.

The only thing I could do now was just keep moving forward, at least as much as possible. So this date hadn't exactly panned out. I'd dry-heaved in the toilet at barely 20 minutes of small talk with a guy who wasn't Caleb and at some point, I was going to have to figure out how to do this. I was going to have to figure out how to date other guys, be with other guys, and eventually, love another guy.

With a sigh, I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my head against the metal divider. Who was I kidding? There would never be anyone else.

I would always love him.

It was just that simple and that devastating.

.
     
.
     
.

Six Months Later

Hey Iz,

How's your summer break going? I know you were in the semester showcase again. Why would they choose anyone else? People were probably crowding around all your pieces just to get a closer look. I tried looking it up online to see if I could find any pictures, but they don't let guys in prison use the internet. I can pretty much only use the computer to type and I'd rather just write you these letters. It just feels more like I'm actually talking to you this way.

Getting past the halfway point feels weird. These last 14 months have felt so long and so short, if that makes any sense. I've got 10 months left in here and I feel like I haven't really slept, I mean
really
slept this whole time. It's hard and it's not just about being trapped in a cell. It's about everything I know I'm missing. Your birthday. All of your shows. Christmas. Waking up with you in the morning. Touching you. Just getting to see you and hear how your day was.

I need to move on to a different topic, don't you think?

I have something to tell you actually. I waited a little while because I wasn't sure I would actually keep up with it and I didn't want you to get all excited and proud only for me to tell you in a couple months that I quit. But here it goes. I started working on a degree. I guess the reading thing was working out so well that my counselor got me started on an accelerated program. I might have a few credits left to finish when I get out, but that's not a big deal.

Business sounded pretty boring at first, but I figured that's the one thing I might actually be able to use when I bust out of this place. The classes are okay. Lots of economics, accounting, and marketing. Some psychology too. I actually don't mind it. I'm not as bad at math as I thought I was, so that means there's still some hope for me left, right?

I guess I just wanted to see if I was smart enough to do it and this is a different kind of school than I'm used to. I can do it all at my own pace and there's still a teacher there to help me if I have questions. I like this a lot better than high school, that's for sure. Knowing this will help me, that I'm doing something I can put to use, it makes me actually try and concentrate. It's better just keep to myself as much as possible anyway and there are plenty of quiet places to sit and study in peace.

Dom said I'm the only person he knows who'd go to prison just to end up in college, but I don't really see it that way. I think the problem is that guys like me and Dom, who don't know anything different than life in the club, we think that's all there is. We don't think we have any other options when we do. We just don't know how to figure out what those options are. It's not like anyone in the club is going to help us.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I was someone else, someone who wasn't raised in this. I don't think I would've chosen it if I hadn't grown up around it all my life. I don't know how I feel about that and I don't really know what I'm supposed to do about it either.

I started talking to this guy I met in the library (he's the one who told me to read Romeo and Juliet) and he told me he wakes up everyday and wishes he was dead. He's finishing up 10 years in here for vehicular manslaughter and you know, I get where he's coming from.

He said he feels like his whole life was leading up to the moment he got in the car and if he'd made one different decision somewhere, somehow, maybe he wouldn't have gotten in that car.

It's crazy because that's exactly how I feel. I feel like my whole life was leading up to the moment I decided to go on that run. If I was a different person, if I lived a different life, I never would've even been at the table having that conversation with Marcus. I think I'm starting to figure out that I can sit here with my head in my hands and wish away all my mistakes or I can do something about it. At least that's what I told him when we got to talking. I'm still working out how to do that.

I told him about you. I hope that's okay. It was just nice to talk to someone who understood how I'm feeling.

Anyway, I have to get going so I can study a little bit. I have a test later today in my business marketing class and my buddy from the library is going to quiz me. I bet you never thought I'd ever say something like that, huh? It's weird, I know.

I hope you're okay. I hope you're happy. I hope...I don't know. I just hope.

Love you always,

Caleb

.
     
.
     
.

Isabelle

Eight Months Later

"This is the one, Isabelle," Dr. Jacobs pointed abruptly to the painting to my left, her flowery French accent making her sound a little more nonchalant than she really was.

I flinched at her choice. Why, oh why, did I bring it in? All I'd wanted was some feedback. That was it. A few critiques here and there about my technique and I would've been perfectly happy with that. But no. She had to push and push until she got her way. That way, it seemed, involved putting my most personal painting to date on display for everyone to see.

With only two months until Caleb was released, my emotions had been getting the better of me. And, true to form, I'd let those emotions manifest themselves across the canvas in splatters and swirls of blue.

To me, it was grotesque and seeping with self-loathing. To Dr. Jacobs, the painting was raw and 'crackling with pain'. Those were her exact words. I'd wanted to throw my paintbrush at her. Maybe I should've.

"I don't know," I sighed. This was a wasted effort. She would not be reasoned with. "It's just too personal. I don't feel comfortable opening myself up this way for everyone else to see."

She just lifted a shoulder, her eyes never leaving my painting. "Your first showcase, if I remember correctly, was stuffed full of personal pieces."

My first showcase, and I
did
remember correctly, was also during a time in my life when I'd had a solid foundation to stand on. I'd been able to let go more easily because, other than the pieces inspired by my mom and Becca, everything else was positive. Happy. Contented, if not a little anxiety-ridden. But it was okay then.
I
was okay then. Now, I felt like I was just stumbling around the wreckage, slipping and sliding on the rubble with little hope for rebuilding.

"Isabelle," Dr. Jacobs rested a hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "Raw emotion, whether it's good or bad or happy or devastating—that's what life is all about. You must have the courage to reach out and grab it while you have the chance. And you can't worry about what other people will think. True artists channel their pain because pain is something we all feel every single day."

I didn't like the sound of that. And I really didn't like the idea of my personal devastation being printed in the university magazine. The exposure was insane, but any other painting and I'd be all over it. But this one? The one I'd painted after a particular sleepless night where I'd missed Caleb so badly, where I'd let pain and depression swallow me whole, and I'd sobbed for hours, hugging my pillow and imagining it was him...this one wasn't really intended for anyone else to see.

The worst part was that I'd painted this just a month ago, so that pretty much spoke volumes for how much I'd figured my shit out. Basically, not at all. I was existing, sure. Going back and forth between classes and work. Getting coffee on the other side of campus so I didn't run into Alex. Meeting my dad once a week for dinner halfway between campus and Claremont. It wasn't much of a life, but it was mine.

"Think about it, Isabelle," Dr. Jacobs stressed and gestured toward my painting again. "Pieces like this? They're not meant to stay locked inside you. They must be shared. They must be seen."

My eyes fell to the painting and I pushed out a deep breath. This was probably a losing battle.

"And," she went on as she pushed a file folder into my chest. "I printed a few things for you to take a look at. I think there might be some options you'd be interested in."

I numbly slid the folder away from my chest and flipped it open. It took me a moment to realize what she'd given me, but my eyes darted back up to her just as quickly.

"Internships? Really?"

She just shrugged. "Yes. You need to start building relationships with galleries that can continue to give you the exposure you need to have a successful career. Many galleries, particularly the ones there in that folder, choose to work exclusively with artists they have a history with. Internships with most galleries are thankless work, but if you intern at any of these places, you'll automatically have a foot in the door for gallery space."

We'd spoken about this before, but at that point, graduation hadn't seemed so imminent. She was right. I needed options and I needed to find them before I graduated and before Caleb got out of prison. If I didn't have some sort of plan, even if it was vague and poorly-drawn, I just didn't know how I'd ever really be able to gain any traction on my own.