Page 5 of The Sharpest Edges

Logically, she’s right and he knows it, but he only shrugs. “Six months feels like six years when those bars close.”

“Yeah, I bet it does.”

He thinks she wants to ask him what he did to end up here in the first place. He can almost see the question on the tip of her tongue, a crease forming between those blue eyes and her fingers tapping against her arms where she crosses them.

She holds it in though and he doesn’t offer.

They lapse into silence again, neither comfortable enough to make small talk, the air growing thicker and thicker by the second because he’s already a social fuck up in general, far more apt to avoid human interaction given the chance, and now here he is with a beautiful woman across from him while he’s in the most unfortunate position of his life, and he can’t even muster up the sense to ask her about the weather.

He scans the room instead, taking it in for the first time while she busies herself with a cup of coffee waiting on the counter. That’s when he notices the hint of a small photo enclosed in plastic, hanging on what looks like her key chain. It slipped partially out of a bag hidden behind a tower of paperwork. There are no lockers in here, no place to safely store anything of value.

“Is that your kid? She’s real cute.” He struggles to point to her key chain that dangles off the counter, only realizing a moment too late that he’d said something incredibly stupid.

Her eyes widen before sadness creeps in while she crosses the room to tuck it back into her bag again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have…shit. I’m not used to how everything just sounds wrong in here. Didn’t mean anything by it. Ain’t in here ‘cause I got a thing for kids, I swear it.”

She stares at him from across the room, studying his face fora moment, judging his sincerity before she shakes her head and quirks a half smile laced with a decent amount of sympathy. “You really are new to this, aren’t you?”

He nods, chewing on the inside of his mouth because that’s what he does to cope when shit gets too heavy and too stressful and this is absolutely stressful. Not only has he gotten caught staring down her shirt, but now she probably thinks he’s one of those useless, waste of space fuckers that gets their kicks diddling kids. He wants to throw up in his own mouth at the very idea of anyone seeing him that way.

“It’s my daughter. Was. Is. In the photo.” She pauses, her teeth snagging her lower lip and her eyes downcast. “Car accident. Almost two years ago. You didn’t ask that, though. I don’t know why I told you.”

She was on the verge of rambling for a moment, and he gets the feeling that isn’t something she normally does. She seemed surprised by it herself, her mouth closing suddenly and her head shaking as if to clear the debris from her mind, the tips of her hair fluttering at the edges.

Now he can add bringing up her dead child to the list of things he’s done wrong today. He needs to go back to his cell and not leave again for the next six months.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a frown, seeing her nod in response to his pointless condolences, and grab her coffee cup again.

Nick blows through the door not a moment too soon because God knows what else Dean would screw up in the meantime if he didn’t. Apologizing seems all he’s good for today.

“I’ll see you in two days, Dean. Try and stay off that foot as much as you can,” she says as he’s being led out the door. So much more understanding than he deserves.

He ducks his head and lifts one corner of his mouth in something that’s supposed to be a half smile but likely looks as unpracticed as it feels.

He’s both looking forward to his next visit and dreading it.

3

Chapter 3

When Ava sees Dean again, he looks worse than before, if that’s even possible. It shouldn’t be. Dark circles ring his eyes and hollow his features, the limp from his broken toe more pronounced and pained.

It’s a stark contrast to the half-smile he’d given her at the end of his previous visit. One corner of his mouth turned up just a bit like he didn’t know how to use those muscles anymore, and she felt accomplished for having prompted that tiny effort.

It was easy to forgive his many mistakes, especially when he became just as flustered by them as she was.

Now, he sits on the bed in front of her, spine hunched and his sore foot hovering over the concrete. She grabs the extra strength pain meds first, and he downs them dry, not bothering to wait for the water she offers.

“How are you today? You look tired.” She already knows the answer but prompts him anyway, pointing at his flip-flop-clad foot and bandage-covered toe, second from the pinkie.

Dean nods his permission for her to slide the shoe off and check the splint, a yawn leaving his mouth at the same time. “Look tired ‘cause I am. Hard to sleep in here. There’s always something going on.”

He stops abruptly, maybe embarrassed that he’s a millisecond away from complaining. Living here isn’t easy, but then again, it isn’t supposed to be. The way he looks at the wall instead of her makes her wonder if he’s leaving something out.

“This place never sleeps, or so I’ve heard. It’s gotta be hard to get used to,” she says with a wince, inspecting the black and blue skin of his injured toe peeking out from the wrapping. Part of the bandage covering the splint is wet and she assumes he stepped in a puddle of backed up water, either in the bathrooms or halls. Plenty of options to pick from. “Have to change this. I bet it’s a petri dish by now, judging by how nasty these floors can get.”

She goes slow, peeling away the wrap and revealing an even deeper shade of splotchy purple than the previous day. All the while, he watches her with silent wariness, as if she might hack the toe clean off.

---