What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  I scurry down the hallway and, at the last second, slip through my parents’ open bedroom door. They’ve headed to the farmer’s market before my dad has to come back home to get to bed. I love the farmer’s market and usually tag along, but told them I had plans today. In the most ambiguous way possible.

  My mother’s jewelry tray sits on top of their dresser, and it only takes me a second to find what I’m looking for. I haven’t seen her wear it for ages, but when I was in here the other day, I couldn’t take my eyes off the way its multi-colored glass beads caught the sunlight streaming in from the window. The bracelet is made from a simple black, corded leather that winds its way through and around a handful of beads. They range in color from a deep blue, to yellow and everything in between. It will be the most vibrant thing I’ve ever worn. It glides over my hand easily and I jiggle my wrist back and forth to make sure it won’t slip off.

  It’s perfect.

  I slide it back over my wrist and into my pocket, and then I’m on my way.

  There’s a different entrance for visitors entirely that I don’t think I’ve ever used. Thank God, though. I’m not sure if the regular Friday guard would even be working, but it’s something I’m grateful to not have to worry about. In fact, I don’t recognize any of the officers on duty when I enter the building. I check in at the front desk and join an already at least fifteen-person-long line to get in. Panic hits me for a fraction of a second when I remember I’ll have to empty my pockets before going through the metal detectors. I manage to put the bracelet on and slide my sleeve over it before it’s my turn.

  While being walked back through the dull, poorly heated hallways, I can’t help but think how being able to see in color must really be wasted in a place like this. Gray walls and gray floors. Even the guards’ faces looked washed out and ashen surrounded by this environment.

  I feel like my hair is practically a giant neon sign, alerting everyone in the building to my presence. Well, everyone who can see how bright it is anyway. I guess I could’ve tried to tame it more, but there’s not a lot I can do about the giant curls other than try my best to keep them out of my eyes.

  There’s a line of windows, sectioned off by partitions that barely reach my shoulders while standing. Basic black phone receivers are attached to the counters with hard, cold-looking metal chairs in front of them. I tuck my skirt underneath my thighs in order to ward off the chill, and I start having a ridiculous internal debate with myself over my hair.

  Should I have pulled it back? Maybe in a bun? The slicked back look has never been something I’ve really been able to pull off, but should I have made an effort to not stand out?

  I’m so nervous I realize I’ve picked the skin around my thumbnail raw. Sucking it into my mouth to alleviate the sting, I taste the coppery tang of blood.

  Oh God, blood.

  I yank it from between my lips and instantly feel sick, but I barely have time to think about it before I realize there’s someone sitting on the other side of the glass now. I look up, lips still parted, and blink like a stupid deer caught in the headlights.

  Oh.

  Chapter Five

  The officer monitoring visitation told everyone before we sat down our fifteen minutes would begin as soon as the prisoners entered. I told myself I wouldn’t waste any of them. I would jump in, start asking my questions and saying my piece, whatever that even is at this point, and be done with it. I would get my answers and then move on the best I could.

  Of course every word I had planned, every word in the English language, vanishes into thin air now that we’re face to face.

  And I can’t help but think just what a face it is.

  He’s all hard lines and high cheekbones, with a strong jawline that’s both intimidating and somehow inviting at the same time. His cheeks and chin are covered in slight stubble, and the hair on his face isn’t quite as dark as what’s on his head. The dark brown, almost black curls fall over his ears and forehead, skimming a set of thick eyebrows pulled straight.

  I follow all of the lines of him with my eyes, from the haphazard waves of his hair, down to the slight cleft in his chin, and I try to suppress the urge to shiver. Somehow, even wearing the awful, gray jumpsuit and sitting in this awful, gray room, he still manages to be brighter than anything else I’ve seen so far. It almost hurts to look at him.

  My eyes start to water, and his, with their color I still haven’t managed to find a name for, narrow at me. In confusion? In irritation? I can’t tell. I swear there’s almost a glint to them, and I cock my head to the side to see if I can still see it from a different angle. The lines around his mouth tighten and I can tell from the tremor in his jaw he’s biting down hard on his back teeth.

  And then I understand.

  He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. Because I’ve been staring at him like one. Like he’s some kind of an animal at the zoo. In a cage.

  I drop my gaze to my lap and let out a breath that’s as shaky and unsure as the rest of me. It’s not a manipulation, but I still hope he sees it for what it is. That he understands I don’t think he’s some amusement or oddity to be observed and learn from.

  Even though I do want to observe him and I do want to learn from him. I still don’t want him to look at me and think I’d be so … so rude. I don’t want him to … I don’t even know. Sitting here now, facing the reality of it, I can hardly keep my thoughts straight about anything. But mostly about him.

  Damn it.

  When I look back up, his gaze doesn’t waver from mine. I can feel my face heating, and now since I know exactly what color a blush is on my pale skin, I can picture the splash of pink spreading over my cheeks and down my neck. When he blinks, it almost feels like a reprieve. A very short reprieve.

  I can’t decide if it’s anger or strength or something else entirely filling the air around him like something solid. But it’s there. It’s coming from his eyes, still and intense, and from the set of his broad shoulders, and it makes me feel … small.

  And that actually makes me feel kind of pissed.

  I straighten my shoulders and sit up taller. Anger is apparently a decent motivator, I think, and file the little tidbit away for future use.

  I reach for the telephone on the counter and the borrowed bracelet slips out from underneath my sleeve. It hits the counter with a thwack that is probably louder to my ears than anyone else’s, and the muscles in my arm stiffen. I can’t help throwing a hurried glance over my shoulder. I exhale slowly when I see the guard has better things to do than inspect my jewelry. Thank God.

  The receiver is cold when I bring it to my ear. Good grief, is everything in here always this chilly?

  Our eyes meet through the glass. And nothing. No response. He doesn’t even make the slightest move toward the phone on his side. I never thought about this possibility. That he wouldn’t want to see me. Wouldn’t want to talk to me.

  Oh God… What if he doesn’t even know why I’m here? What if he doesn’t see it?

  I know when he couldn’t stop staring at me or my hair the other day, I took it as a sign he could see the colors, too, but what if I was wrong, wrong, wrong?

  Would it be a bad thing? Would it be better?

  Why didn’t I think of this?

  The look on my face must be pretty pitiful because there’s a flash of something very akin to sympathy in his eyes as he sighs heavily and finally reaches for the phone. He holds it away from his ear for a second, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. I watch as his chest expands with another deep inhale, and he brushes his fingers harshly through his hair. Combing through the strands from back to front, it stands on end, but the finger-in-a-light-socket look doesn’t detract at all from the air of intensity he projects.

  He puts the receiver up to his ear and there’s a beat of silence between us before I speak.

  “You’re Andrew.”

  Nice, Libby. Real nice. Of course he’s Andrew. He knows this. You know this.

 
He doesn’t say anything. Probably because he’s too busy thinking the girl sitting across from him is some kind of socially inept moron.

  He nods, the movement slight and succinct. There’s no hint of amusement on his face though, and the gesture makes me feel the slightest bit better.

  I try again.

  “I’m Libby.”

  My voice sounds determined now. Strong.

  He still doesn’t say anything, but lowers his gaze to where my mother’s bracelet hangs from my wrist. His face gives nothing away, which is frustrating because I’ve always been very good at reading people and their facial expressions. Other than the split second of feeling sorry for me a moment ago, he has the best poker face I’ve ever seen. Or maybe he’s simply a long-time sufferer of resting bitch face. Who knows? It’s starting to put me on edge, though.

  The longer he stares at the bracelet, the more I start to think maybe I wasn’t wrong after all. Other than my hair, it has to be the brightest, most colorful thing in the room. It’s not all that extraordinary in black and white, I know. I’ve seen it off and on throughout the years and never had it catch my eye the way it does now.

  I fiddle with it a little, using my other hand to turn the leather cord so the overhead lights catch on the glass beads. His head snaps up and I raise an eyebrow, a move lifted straight from Beth’s handbook.

  Enter another round of our staring contest.

  “You know why I’m here… Right?”

  There’s a barely noticeable twitch at the corner of his left eye, one that’s mimicked in the corresponding hand, and he looks down. I’ve won this round, but my feelings of victory are short-lived. He’s still looking down at his lap, and when he speaks, his words nearly cut me down.

  “Haven’t got a clue.”

  His voice is deep and rough, like it’s the first time he’s used it today, and it sends a chill right through me. It’s not possible, I know, but I can hear it echoing in my head. Those four words are enough to make my heart drop.

  He’s lying. He has to be lying. Why would he be so fascinated with a stupid bracelet if he couldn’t see it in color, too?

  I glare at where it dangles from my wrist, and then look up and glare at him as well.

  I remember all of the things I was going to ask him now. What really happened that day? Why would he do such a thing? Is he happy now? Did he prove some kind of point? Mostly questions formed out of anger and disgust, and seem stupid now that I’m here.

  I’d thought he’d be intimidating. That I would be scared sitting across from him and would have to really work through the nerves in order to get anything out. Instead he just seems tired and disappointed.

  He leans back in his chair, crossing one arm over his chest and resting his opposite bicep on top of it. It’s the closest thing to intimidating I’ve seen from him yet. And it’s not even because he’s trying to pose a threat or look aggressive. No, it’s only because he really does have some seriously toned arms and I find myself wondering if soccer is the only sport he plays. Or played. I doubt they have a lot of opportunity for recreational sports here. I wonder if they even get to go outside here…

  The thought trails off as he shifts a little—probably because I’m making him uncomfortable, staring at him like some kind of creeper—and his sleeve is pushed up a tiny bit. There’s a tattoo there. A thick, black band circling his entire arm. And that’s it. There are no patterns in it, or words, or a single flourish.

  It’s exactly like its wearer. Strong, steady, and refusing to give anything away.

  The silence becomes too much, and I can’t sit quietly for another second. Besides, time is running out. I might as well try to accomplish something. Something being pretty much anything at this point seeing as how nearly ten minutes have passed and he’s said precisely four words.

  “Has anyone else been by to see you? Your friends? Your brother…?”

  On second thought, I should’ve kept my mouth shut. He sits up straight, and his eyes go cold and somehow his face becomes even more closed off and even harder. I watch his lips part slightly, and he starts to reply. Probably to tell me how I need to mind my own damned business. He shakes his head instead though, snapping his mouth shut again and tightening the hand he’s laid on the counter in front of him into a fist.

  Okay. So maybe he’s not going to talk. Though I’ll admit bringing up his little brother visiting him in a place like this probably wasn’t the smartest route to take. Well, if he won’t talk, then neither will I.

  I focus on his fist instead. On the way his knuckles are now a stark white against his otherwise dusky, tan complexion. How his nails are kept clean and short, but not ragged like the bulk of teenage boys. The way the little half-moon indentions are a different color from everything else. And the mole on the top of his hand, right above the knuckle of his pinkie. The blue veins running just underneath his skin that look greener in places.

  I have been continually amazed by the sheer amount of color in the world since I met this boy, but the magnitude of it that I find in this tiny piece of him still manages to astound me. I swallow past the growing knot in my throat and hope he doesn’t notice.

  His hand is large, exactly like the rest of him. Large, but lean. I barely noticed his height or overall proportions last week, but even sitting down I can tell he’s a big guy. Taller than me by more than a couple of inches, which is unusual, with a broad, strong-looking chest and shoulders. Even with the poorly-fitted, over-sized jumpsuit I can still tell these things.

  I trace the path of another vein, this one along the long column of his neck, and follow it to a pulse point. Stopping there, I watch as the blood pumping through his body makes the tiny spot jump. The silence flowing between us, trapped in the generic, plastic telephones held to each of our ears, is so great I feel like if I listen hard enough, I’ll actually be able to hear his heartbeat.

  He’s still looking at me head-on when I come to his eyes. I try to memorize their color. Even if I never see him again, it’s something that will drive me crazy if I don’t figure it out. There’s definitely brown streaked through the lighter color and forming a dark ring around the edges. The other isn’t gold … not quite.

  His gaze is so fierce I wish I knew what he was thinking. Other than, ‘who the hell does this girl think she is?’ And ‘how did I get myself saddled with this one as a Soulmate?’

  I jump as a hand falls to my shoulder, clearing at least three inches from my seat. Andrew is looking at whoever is standing behind me, and I turn my head to find the supervising guard. Without trying to draw attention to it, I switch my hand holding the receiver and do my best to draw my sleeve back down over my bracelet.

  “One more minute, ma’am.”

  He nods his head, face blank, and then moves on to the next visitation booth.

  When I turn back to the window, my hair whips around and an errant curl gets itself stuck to the gloss I’d forgotten was even on my lips. Andrew’s composure seems rattled when I look at him. His breath hitches a little in his chest and it makes me feel … not uneasy exactly, but rattled all the same. He closes his eyes, and I wish I didn’t notice how dark and thick his eyelashes are as they fan out over his cheeks. I reach up to pull my hair from the sticky mess on my mouth and grimace a little at the way it feels all clumped together. He blinks when I look back up and something inside me starts to grow warm.

  “Visitation’s over.” The officer’s gruff voice cuts through the air.

  All around me I see people pushing back in their chairs, placing their receivers back into their cradles, and smiling and waving their goodbyes to the people on the other side of the glass. And I’m frozen into place while Andrew hasn’t moved from his spot either.

  The guard on Andrew’s side starts to line the inmates up, starting from the far left, and working his way toward our end. The words come out before I can stop them.

  “I … I can come back.”

  I’m shocked at my own declaration, but not by the fa
ct, again, there’s no reply.

  Chapter Six

  “You sure you’re feeling okay, sweetie?”

  Most of the time, the stream of constant worry and nagging in our household comes from my father. It’s only natural, I suppose. He’s always got me and my well-being in the forefront of his mind, like most parents. Add in our particular circumstances, and I’ve got myself someone who’s almost more attuned to my moods than I am.

  My mother understands this, takes it in stride even. She leaves the worrying to him, and says it leaves her plenty of room to be ‘the cool one’. So for her to finally break down and voice her concern, I must be looking pretty off tonight.

  “You’re looking kind of off tonight.”

  See?

  Who can blame me though? I do feel off. I’m sure I look it as well.

  For some reason, I didn’t foresee today having this kind of effect. Maybe because I didn’t think about the effect of it at all. I figured I would get some answers and walk away thinking Andrew McCormack was either the scum of the Earth, or not at all what I thought him to be. I guess in a way I ended up with the latter, but after learning nothing new about him in the least I would think my opinion of him would have stayed the same.

  Ha.

  No. Now instead of being adamantly against the very idea of him, I keep getting stuck on the stupid color of his stupid eyes. And how tired he looked. And the disappointment that rolled off him in waves.

  Am I really vain enough to think his disappointment had something to do with me and not the terrible environment he’s stuck in? Yeah, I guess I am. Because I keep going over it in my head. Was I an awful let down? Did he expect something different from his Soulmate? And I refuse to believe his lie… I refuse to believe he doesn’t see it, too. Was he hoping for more, only to be stuck with me?