Page 82 of Lights, Camera, Love

I step out of Mike’s car and run my sweaty palms down the front of my grey jeans as I find my way tothe back of the visitors’ queue. The line moves surprisingly—unnervingly—fast. When I reach the front, the security officer checks my details, then directs me to the part of the prison that houses Jace Evans. Here, though, he’s just a number: 917883.

Once I’m past security, I’m ushered through a series of solid steel doors and into a stark room. Round concrete tables and stools are scattered about, each piece of furniture bolted to the floor. Most of the tables are already occupied by inmates and their visitors, while correctional officers mill about, keeping watch. Looking for a vacant spot, I wind past the grubby kids’ play corner, where a bearded inmate with arms covered in ink sits facing the padded mat, bouncing a baby on his thigh. The guy catches me looking and flings me a chilling glower. Point taken: stares are not welcome here.

I lower my eyes and slip onto a cold cement stool at an empty table. My trembling fingers reach for my wrist, finding only bare skin. With the exception of wedding bands, jewellery is banned for visits, so I had to take off my leather strap this morning. I’d been hoping that Jace would see it.

A heavy door at the opposite end of the room swings open, and a young man steps through it. My stomach drops into freefall. Jace’s jawline is peppered with a short, scruffy beard, and his hair sits up off his face in a messy tangle, just like mine but a shade lighter. He’s wearing green sweatpants, a green T-shirt and a pair of threadbare sneakers with no socks.

His eyes land on me, and I break into a cold sweat. He drags the back of his hand across his nose, then swaggers over to me. Is he limping, or is this some kind of gang walk?

He flops onto the stool opposite mine and crosses his bulging, tattooed arms, his light-green eyes staring past my shoulder. I’m struck by how young he looks. Too young to be in here.

‘Hi,’ I manage to get out.

Without looking at me, Jace links his fingers behind his head and rocks backwards before dropping his forearms onto the table. All the while, he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. He has the same sort of manic energy as Austin. Unease claws into my stomach.

‘Thanks for … for letting me visit,’ I stumble.

He continues to stare past my shoulder, dead-eyed.

I twist around, but there’s only a wall behind me.

‘How are you?’ I say, and instantly, I want to fall through the floor.He’s in fucking jail—how do you think he is?

Thankfully, he doesn’t reply to that stupid question, but nor does he say anything else. He doesn’t even make eye contact.

‘Are you going to look at me, Jace?’ I eventually mumble, my gut tightening.

A line crosses his brow, and I expect him to finally meet my gaze, but he doesn’t. All he does is fold his arms again, push his tongue into the inside of his cheek and turn his face away.

A stifling realisation dawns on me. This is happening exactly how I feared it would.

Jace doesn’t want to talk to me.

‘Hey, listen,’ I say weakly, sitting forward. ‘You know, I wanted to come and visit you sooner. A lot sooner. But—’

A ‘pfshh’ sound escapes his lips. He shakes his head and blinks down. At least I’m getting some kind of reaction now.

‘I’m really glad I’m here now, though,’ I continue, the thickening feeling in my throat making every word a struggle. ‘It’ssogood to see you, man—’

He lurches to his feet, his dirty sneakers squeaking against the floor. ‘You know what? Forget it, bruh,’ he says, speaking in a deep voice that resembles mine. ‘This was a waste of fucking time.’

‘No, don’t do this,’ I plead as he turns to go, horror crashing into my stomach. ‘Just please—sit down.’

He spins back around and glares at me, his brows jammed together. ‘You fucking telling me what to do?’ His tone brings a few head-turns from the correctional officers.

‘Jace, please,’ I choke out.

‘You think you can come in here after all this time and fucking order me around? Who the fuck are you?’

‘No, not at all. I’m not trying to do anything like that.’

In a lightning-fast move, he grips the edge of the concrete table and lowers his face down to stare rightinto my eyes. ‘You come back in here again, and I’ll drop you, dickhead.’

My lips pop open as he draws back and then huffs off towards the door he came in through.

‘Jace,’ I croak, jumping up to follow him.

He nods to one of the guards beside the door, who pushes a button.

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