Chapter 12 - THE FIRST VISIT
I visited Vincent during his sixth year in prison.
Until then, we had communicated only through letters and one brief legal call.
The visiting room smelled of disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Vincent entered wearing a plain uniform.
He looked older.
Thinner.
Without the suit, guards, and reputation surrounding him, he appeared more human.
That frightened me more than the myth.
He sat across from me.
“You came.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see whether I was writing to a real person or a memory.”
“And?”
“I have not decided.”
A small smile touched his face.
He asked about the diner.
Rosa.
Ruth.
My arm.
He did not ask whether I had missed him.
I answered the question anyway.
“Sometimes.”
Vincent looked down.
“I missed you.”
Silence settled between us.
I had imagined this meeting becoming romantic.
Instead, it was difficult.
Necessary.
Real.
“Do you regret surrendering the records?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you regret helping me?”
“No.”
“Do you regret the life before me?”
“Yes.”
“That is a simple answer.”
“The explanation is not.”
He described growing up inside violence presented as inheritance.
He learned that protecting family meant making outsiders afraid.
By the time he questioned the rules, he already benefited from them.
“I gave you the card because I wanted to do one clean thing.”
“You did not know whether I would call.”
“I hoped you would not need to.”
“Were you interested in me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The diner.”
“That complicates the clean thing.”
“It does.”
I appreciated the honesty.
He did not present himself as a noble guardian without desire.
He had been attracted to me.
He had also respected the distance my father requested.
Both facts existed.
“What happens when you leave?” I asked.
“I build something legal.”
“Restaurants?”
“Ruth said she would never allow me near her kitchen.”
“She is wise.”
He smiled.
“What happens with us?”
I looked at the glass separating the visiting tables.
“We meet again when you are free.”
“Then we decide.”
Vincent nodded.
No promise.
No waiting vow.
No dramatic claim that destiny had connected us.
Only a future conversation between two people with choices.
As I stood to leave, he spoke.
“Lena.”
I turned.
“You saved yourself before I reached the apartment.”
“How?”
“You made the call.”
For years, I believed rescue began when Vincent broke through the front door.
May you like
He was right.
It began when I chose the number.
