Miranda POV
I threw my thick down winter coat onto the chair and flopped face down onto my bed. I didn't even bother to take my boots off, which will be to my demise later when I have to walk through the wetness of the melted snow on my carpet, but I just couldn't deal with the world for even one more minute. Of course, I’m never truly alone and my dog jumps up behind me to prove my point. She is eager to see me after a long day at work and starts to lick my neck and face with her coarse, wet tongue, and as gross as it actually is, I still find it comforting. It's not her fault I'm in such a crabby mood, and all she wants is to be let outside for a good run and to empty her bladder. It only takes about two more minutes of licking (and whining) before I can't stand the guilt, so I get up and take her outside, not bothering to put my coat back on this time.
The wind is absolutely freezing and you’d think I’d expect the sudden chill to my core, afterall, I do live in Alaska; but, it never seems to amaze me how cold the world can actually get. Huh. I guess that's true in more ways than just weather. We’ve gotten at least two feet of snow over the last week and while even a quarter of this amount of snow would shut down any other city in the nation, we are not so fortunate. It literally takes an act of God for any business or school to call a ‘snow day’ and trust me, we have plenty of acts of God to choose from. Just last year, we had to experience category 4 hurricane strength winds, before the stores finally figured it might be worth it to board up the windows and call it a day. The year before that, a major earthquake destroyed the highways and sinkholes buried houses around Wasilla, the suburb where I live.
A big black tail repeatedly smacks the back of legs. “Hey Beebs, did you miss me? Only one more day until the weekend.” Great, now I’m talking to a dog. Well, if you saw her you wouldn't blame me. Black lab mixed with some husky made the perfect combination for a loyal, smart, stubborn and super-cute best friend.
As I walk back in the house, I hear a familiar ring tone blaring from my phone. Amanda. She set her ringtone to the tune of Queen’s “We are the Champions” after our last game night at her brothers house, where we whooped everyone in both scattergories and charades. “Hey girl. What's up?”
Amanda’s been my bestie for about six years now. We met at a managerial training conference in Anchorage (a long, boring conference). During the afternoon training session, I saw Amanda hiding in the convention hall lounge, sipping on a whiskey sour. Her eyes grew wide when she recognized I was also from the conference, until she realized I, too, was hiding in the lounge. Ten whiskey sours later, we declared our bestie status and it hasn’t faltered since. We’re probably more opposites than any other set of besties but I know she always has my back no matter what, and that is my definition of friendship.
“Just making sure you're not going to bail on us tomorrow night.” Shoot! I totally forgot I’m suppose to meet her and a few of the other girls from our art class for a wine and paint night. I hate those things-everyone painting the same damn thing, Why on earth would I want the same exact painting as everyone in my class. It’s not like I even want a painting of a dolphin hanging in my living room. Quick! Think of an excuse…”Umm….”
“Don’t start with that, Miranda. You’ve dipped out the last two months and you promised me this time! I cant sit alone while those snooty bitches talk about their latest manicure and cleaning hacks. If I hear one more ‘just add baking soda’ I think I’ll punch one of them in the nose. And, seriously, I dont know whats going on with you but you do this every Christmas. You need to snap out of it. Maybe after painting, we can check out the club and get you some dick. Maybe a couple of knocks into a headboard will clear that overactive brain of yours,” she laughs. Leave it to Amanda to pitch random sex with a stranger as a solution to my mood. But then again, that is her solution for nearly everything.
“Easy for you to say.” I tell her. Amanda never fails to get male attention when we go out together with her long legs and bleach blond hair. While, I’ve got more of the girl next door look going on, Amanda looks more like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her hair is always perfectly curled, while my chestnut locks are usually pulled up on top of my head into a messy bun. While she’s thin and stands five foot nine, I’m much shorter at five foot five with a more athletic build-my legs can only be described as thick and muscular. I figure that’s due to summers filled with hiking and well, anything else I can do outdoors. In the summer. Can I emphasize that? Summer! I’ll pass on the blizzard currently happening in my yard.
……….
The wine and paint night is over and I successfully avoided going to the club with Amanda. It wasn’t so bad, after all, and I’m happy to report we didn't have to paint a dolphin. It was a pumpkin. Which is a hell of a lot better, but still a room full of pumpkins that pretty much all look the same is not exactly what I’m going for when I think of art. Or when I think of living room decor. I guess the class instructors were going with the fall theme since next week is Thanksgiving.
Since I was surrounded by pumpkins all night, it reminded me to call my mother to see what our plans are for the holidays this year. Personally, if I could skip them all together I would. The materialism of the holidays has done nothing but increasingly depress me over the last several years. Every year it gets worse and worse. I guess it's fine for the Santa Claus’ in our community, the ones who thrive on giving once a year so they can brag to their friends about their generosity. I mean, at least they're giving back, even if it's once a year. For the financially oppressed, like the families I used to work with, the holidays are nothing but a shame and guilt riddled hellscape that causes depression. The more closely I look at it, the more I can see that it's nothing but an intentional societal failing. Damn! I’m more of a grinch than I thought I was.
“Hey, mama. I was just calling to see about the holiday plans,” I inquire.
“Oh, Miranda! I was wondering when you’d call. Your brother said you're in your usual holiday funk.”
“I’m just choosing to ignore the social programming.”
“Okay, if that’s what you say. Should I assume you don't want any pies then?”
“Umm. No, I definitely want the pies.” My mom makes the best pies. Everything from scratch. Blueberry is my favorite as she uses blueberries I pick near Denali National Park each year. It may take two hours and a strained back to get a single gallon of berries, but they are always worth the hassle.
“That’s what I thought.” Why is it that talking to my mother always makes me feel better, even when we are only talking about pies and dinner dates. I guess that is what mothers do, provide us with a safe feeling even when we don't know what we are fearing.
Laying on my bed, the fluffy, white comforter covering my bare legs, I scroll through social media. I rarely take time out of my day to look on these sites, however, tonight I feel like I am deserving of a mindless treat and begin with watching the latest dance trends and lip syncs. I move on to snooping through the pictures of past friends and see who has succumbed to the rapid ingestion of consumerism. Once I am satisfied and have convinced myself that there is no hope for humankind, I go to close the app, but pause when I see something that catches my eye, a post from a girl I haven't seen in years.
“Human connection is the gift. Can anyone take a few moments this Christmas to remind my cousin in prison he is not forgotten.” Intrigued, I click the link….
Joel POV “Johnson, you got mail.” I hear the CO (correction officer) say as he shoves an envelope through my cell bars. The envelope hits the concrete floor face up and I turn my head on my pillow enough to notice what appears to be female hand writing on a standard white envelope. “I’m surprised anyone gives a shit about the likes of you.” He’s such a dick. Why can't he just keep his fucking mouth shut. If I was anywhere else, I’d shut it for him. I glance back at the letter. Who the fuck would be writing me? My cellie grabs it off the floor before I can get to it. “From Miranda Harris. Joel, you have a woman or what?” I wish. But, I’ve never even heard of this person. “Shut-up, Shotgun.” Yeah, we call my cellie, Shotgun. Apparently, he got the nickname because he shot his father and two of his uncles, all in the head with a shotgun when he was nineteen, but no one really knows for sure why he did it. We get along pretty good since we both got sentenced young and have b
Joel POV Shotgun moved over to sit on my bed and I draped a blanket like a curtain from the top bunk. I then stretched a sheet across the front of the cell, blocking most of the view from the cell door window in case a female CO walked by. I stripped off my clothes, soaped up my washcloth, and started to wash off starting with my upper body. My arms and chest were sore from today's work out and the veins in my forearms protruded as I glided over them with the washcloth. At least that is one benefit to this life, years of prison workouts have resulted in my body being covered in thick muscles, matching my height of six foot two. I am no longer the scrawny, uncoordinated adolescent I was when I was first sentenced to this hell hole. I also have a shit ton of tattoos and while some are truly exquisite works done by some amazing artists I've met along the way, others are just scrawls with prison ink completed out of boredom or as a favor for other inmates to practice on blank skin.
Miranda POV “What are you doing here? I thought you had the week off, “ I tell my boss, Nancy, as she walks into my office. I was really looking forward to having a week without anyone bothering me. I can get so much more done without the constant distraction of small talk and meetings that take forever when a simple conversation would suffice. It's just like the coffee mug Amanda got me last year for Christmas says, “This meeting could have been an email.” Nancy is in her late forties and she's the type of woman who is fighting aging hard. She has her hair dyed an entirely too blonde color that doesn't match her features, and is always talking about which facial creams are reducing her wrinkles by adding collagen or Retin A or whatever new wonder chemical removes crows feet. Last year she swore by a cream that boasted they used human sperm in their secret anti-aging solution. Damn, Nancy, if you want sperm on your face I can think of a few easier ways to achieve that without
Miranda POV My mind keeps wandering back to the letter I received even after I completed my nightly routine of taking care of my dog’s needs and chatting up Amanda so she doesnt run off and do something crazy, like call over some stranger she met on social media. Ever since her break up with her long term boyfriend, David, she has started meeting men through different social media apps and even some dating or hook-up apps. It doesn't really bother me. I mean, to each is his own and her sexual business is just that-her business. I’m a strong believer that no one should be shamed for who they are attracted to and/or if they have any kinks or fetishes as long as everyone involved is a consenting adult. As long as it does not include any vulnerable populations or animals, then their preferences are their own to manage. I've got enough of my own life to manage, to worry about judging others. The only worry I have about Amanda is that sometimes her actions seem unsafe. Just last week
Joel POV “You dicks ready to get out of lockdown?” the CO barks as he walks by finishing count. “Really?” Shotgun asks hopefully. Me, I never get too hopeful. When it comes to the COs in my pod, I’ll believe it when I see it. I’ve been disappointed more than once and have learned the hard way not to be too optimistic when it comes to promises from the ones in charge around here. Once the CO has passed, I flop back onto the bottom bunk and turn on a television show. Not so much for me, but Shotgun doesn't have a television and I know he will want to kill some time watching something before they hopefully let us out for breakfast. The entire prison is sectioned into pods that hold around eighty men. There are two floors of cells that circle an open area in the center. On the bottom floor, the center circle holds two phones, two televisions, and two kiosks where we can plug in a tablet and download games, music, and emails from a secure email site. The showers are also on the botto
It almost feels like freedom, to be out of lockdown, to be walking around again, even if it's just in our own pod and around campus. It's dinner time now, Shotgun and I are standing in line for chow, talking while waiting for the doors to the cafeteria to open, when the COs escort in a large-built, light skinned cat. We both recognized him from other pods as it's pretty common to be moved around a lot. He goes by the name of Richmond. Shotgun and I both look at each other knowingly. The word is they moved him because someone in his pod set up his younger cousin, but we’re pretty sure the narc he’s looking for is in fact, in our pod. We know something is about to go down by the way he’s carrying himself and looking around. Richmond carries his property into the cell that is empty, continuing to look around. Shotgun and I shift ever so slightly to keep whatever is about to happen in front of us. We know he is part of a group of friends, or what the COs refer to as a ‘gang’ and a hand
Miranda POV I’m happy to report I was able to make it through Thanksgiving without being further traumatized by scarecrows or anything with the words pumpkin-spiced attached. Thanksgiving turned out to be a nice lunch with my mom, step-dad, and brother. It was practically painless and really, who can complain when my mother’s blueberry pie is involved. I just got off work and ran to the grocery store and of course I am assaulted by the holiday regalia the second I walk through the sliding doors. I maneuver as fast as I can around a gray haired man wearing scraggly jeans, ringing a bell over his empty money bucket for a corporation that claims to be religious and non-profit, but I know better. They make the public believe they use the donated money to help poor children and recovering alcoholics when what they really use it for is to pay their executives fat Christmas bonuses. Shame on them pretending to be santa. ‘They should rename their whole corporation Satan's-Army’ I think
Miranda POV Its true, I do feel comfortable writing to Joel; more so than I have ever felt with anyone else in person or via mail or rather email since I haven't actually written a hand letter since I was in second grade and Mrs. Sendrick wanted us to learn about the history of the United States Postal Service. I should be thankful to her now that I have the skills to properly write and letter and address an envelope, but I can't forget how she mocked me, calling me “poor baby Miranda who lost her new crayons.” Those crayons were the one thing I wanted for Christmas back then and she laughed when they went missing. I’m pretty sure mean Bobby White stole them as he had the whole sixty-four color pack mysteriously show up in his desk the next day and I seriously doubt that his parents bought him those crayons when he never even had a lunch. Even after he stole my crayons and called me “poor baby Miranda” for the entire year, I still snuck granola bars into his desk when he wasn't loo
Joel POV Sometimes people get second chances. It is my experience that it is rare and doesn't at all follow the cliches we always hear about getting a do-over. ‘As long as you have breath in your body, you still have time for another chance..’ ‘Every moment of your life is a second chance…’ These are absolutely not true. Second chances take a lot more than just being able to suck in air. They take time and commitment to change. They take willpower and gratitude at the highest level. Often, people are given a lot more than just second chances, they are given chance, after chance, after chance. Then, after repeated forgiveness from others, they feel entitled and rarely change, leaving their people frustrated and regretful. Not me! I was given an opportunity for a life, for love and I knew exactly what was offered. That is why I grabbed it with both hands and refused to let go. I refused to let her go. Some may even say I have become dependent upon Miranda for my happiness. To
Joel POV It has been a busy week. Since I arrived on short notice, Miranda was unable to get time off work because they are finishing up her current project apparently with some sort of rush due to funding. I know she will do great, and she can easily get a new job with how smart she is, but she is nervous, nonetheless. As for me, I didn't want to get stuck sitting in front of the television waiting for her to get home every day so I called up Jim’s Construction after learning he was having trouble with current employees calling out. I told him that I was available to help for the week and he took me up on my offer and I've been busy every day. He does mostly small jobs-building sheds and shops, home additions, and even some decks. I wasn't sure Jim would want me to work for him after learning about my past, but he was supportive, mentioning that his brother had spent some time in prison and that everyone deserves a second chance. I also had to make sure I mentioned it to Mr. Bar
Miranda POV I wake up early and dig around in Joel’s suitcase for something comfortable to wear. Settling on one of his oversized Virginia Cavaliers hoodies, I throw on my stretch pants and head down to the lobby. If I’m going to make it through this day, I am definitely going to require high doses of caffeine. Since Joel is here in Alaska and there is no doubt that his place in my life is not faltering, he needs to meet my people-at the very least my mom, my brother, and Amanda. I text Amanda to meet me at my house at one o’clock. That will give us plenty of time to check out, grab some breakfast for Joel, and get back to my house to meet her. Then, I figure I might as well kill two birds with one stone, so I text Mik as well, inviting him over for a late lunch. I know he’ll come if there’s food involved, and I can grab a pack of tacos from the food truck that parks down the road from my house. The hotel’s tea collection is weak, and their coffee is stale, but I guess it will d
Joel POV I wanted to just head straight to the airport and run home but I just couldn't do it so I found myself driving to the hotel I had listed on my travel pass and checking in at the front desk. I felt exhausted, mentally, emotionally, and even physically from I can't even remember how many hours of uncomfortable traveling over the last twenty-four-hour period. I wasn't mad. Well, maybe I was mad at myself for trusting someone again. But not mad at Miranda; I don't know that I'd feel differently if I were in her shoes. “Checking in. I have a reservation. Joel Johnson.,” I say as I approach the front desk of the hotel lobby. I look around and notice the hotel is fairly nice with a definite Alaska feel to it. The furniture is rugged with red plaid accent pillows and the main centerpiece is a giant stuffed grizzly bear. I might be impressed if I wasn't so tired. There’s a kid behind the desk and I’m guessing he can't be over eighteen. “Without looking up from the computer he
Miranda POV Joel was right. I had known about the crimes he committed when I reached out to him, and I had no right to hold them against him now. Furthermore, I had knowingly built a relationship and made a commitment to that relationship knowing all the while I did not have the details of his past. How can I just turn my back on someone who means so much without even getting the whole story? Without fighting for the relationship, I swore meant so much to me. One thing I have always loved about myself was that part that can be nonjudgmental and open to other's experiences. I have always believed that we are each on our own journey and that theirs is not mine to judge. We all have different things to learn in this life and it's not my responsibility to decide what is wrong or right/good or bad. Moreso, it's my job as a fellow human being to support people through their journey, no matter how much I disagree or am confused by their decisions along the way. Now that I know the circ
Joel POV I could barely see straight, and my hands started shaking as I formed them into fists. I hadn't been this furious since that day everything had happened. "I shouldn't have to explain myself to you or anyone else! Especially not your nosy bitch friend,” I say, raising my voice. “It is supposed to be you and me against the world. That's what you fucking told me, and I guess I was stupid enough to believe you.” Miranda backed away from me and I could see a glimmer of fear in her eyes, and I immediately regretted my initial reaction. I never wanted her to be scared of me. I had never forgiven myself for what had happened. So, how could I ever expect her to understand or forgive me when I can't even forgive myself? I tried to bring it up to her a few times, but when I did, I only felt shame and guilt. Now here I was, scaring her and for what? Because her nosy best friend had filled her head with bullshit, and she read some damned articles that were only half truths? I rememb
Miranda POV I sit up in my bed and am thankful that it's the weekend. It's been a long, hard week at work, and I can use both the physical and mental rest. I’m even more thankful that I am finally getting through each day without constant reminders of Joel and even though I think I am a long way from being over him, I am able to function a lot better than I was a few weeks ago. I hear a knock on the front door, Beebs barks, and I move into the living room, curious to see who could be at my house this early on a Saturday. Thinking it’s probably the local neighborhood kids trying to earn some extra money cleaning up yards, I throw on some shorts under my long tee shirt just to make sure they don’t get an eye full. However, when I open the door, I am not met by the local preteens. Instead, the very reason for my recent misery stands before me. I stare, shocked, until I can finally form words, “Joel, what are you doing here?” I should probably be scared. I mean what kind of psych
Joel POV I sat in my truck breathing deeply. It was about ten minutes before my appointment and I was collecting my thoughts. I knew without a doubt that this is what I wanted but it could very well backfire. I had requested this appointment to request an out of state pass, but I knew even without it, one way or another, I would be going to talk to Miranda. Yeah, I know it’s risky and such behavior may get me locked up again, but I can't say I care much anymore. I’ve tried to call a few times but she has not accepted my calls or returned my texts. I need to talk to her, to apologize and if she doesn't forgive me then I will move on. I at least deserve a chance to say my piece. I pulled down the sun visor and looked at the backside, where I kept the picture of Miranda clipped. I never told her that I kept her with me and I wasn't sure why. Maybe because It was cheesy but more likely because it was difficult for me to open up, to care for someone and allow them to care for me. I
Miranda POV Amanda pulled her phone out and pulled up the article she had saved in her search history. I stared in shock as I read the newspaper headline “Boyfriend of Alecia Pike sentenced 22-years for Manslaughter.” Wait. What am I looking at? I’m confused at first but it becomes clearer as I continue to read, “Joel Johnson, boyfriend of slain woman received a sentence of twenty-two years in the murder of Alecia Pike in the First Judicial District Court of Virginia today after a week-long sentencing hearing. The extended hearing allowed the many victims and families of the victims in this case to testify for the court’s consideration. It was reported that the second victim, a minor in the case, who suffered a first-degree assault at the hands of the assailant was also present in the court….” I could not physically rad any longer as I felt bile begin to creep into my airway. “Where did you get this?” I asked Amanda, still hoping it was some sort of mistake. Or a joke, this had to