“Want me to do your makeup?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Cierra walks back to the bathroom. I glance next to the bathroom door, at the picture of Mother Teresa I hung on the wall the day I arrived.

I wonder what version of herself my mother could have been if it weren’t for her addictions? I wish I could have known that version.

For her sake, that’s the version of her I’m going to choose to miss. The person she never had the chance to be.

I kiss my fingers and then press them against the picture as I walk past it and into the bathroom.

Cierra is sorting her makeup. I promised myself when I first met her that I wasn’t going to prejudge her by labeling her a locker room girl like I almost did with Sara. No matter who Cierra was in high school, or who I was, we’re all made up of more than our past behaviors, good or bad.

I no longer want to be the version of myself who judged people before accepting them. I was projecting all the behaviors I resented.

Cierra looks at my reflection in the mirror and smiles like she’s just as excited as Sara would be to glam me up.

I smile back at her and pretend to be excited, too.

If I have to pretend my way through this entire year, it’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to smile so much that my fake smile eventually becomes real.

THIRTY-ONE

Fall 2019

Today has the makings of being a perfect day. It’s October and the sun is out, but it’s cool enough that I’ve been sitting on the hood of my car for the last two hours and haven’t even broken a sweat.

But despite the potential for the day, things could still end in severe disappointment. I have no idea.

How will Samson react when he walks through those doors?

Who will he be?

Who has he become?

There’s a saying from Maya Angelou that reminds me of our situation. When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.

I’ve clung to that saying so tightly, it feels carved into my bones. I always go back to it when I start to have doubts because I want to believe the summer I spent with Samson was the real Samson. I want to believe that he’s hoping I’m waiting for him as much as I’m hoping he wants me here.

But even if he isn’t, I think enough time has passed that my heart bone has healed. There’s still a crack in it. I sometimes feel it aching. Mostly when it’s late at night and I’m unable to sleep.

It’s been well over four years since the last time I saw him, and my thoughts of him continue to separate further apart by stretches of thoughts that don’t involve Samson. But I don’t know if that’s because I’m trying to protect myself from what could potentially happen today or if it’s because Samson really was just one summer fling in a life filled with other seasons.

That’s the worst outcome I can imagine—that all the moments we shared that left such a lasting impact on me, weren’t profound for him at all.

I’ve thought about saving myself the potential embarrassment. He might see me out here waiting on him and barely remember me. Or worse—he could feel sorry for the girl who hung on after all this time.

Either of those options are worth the risk, because the idea of him walking out those doors to no one sounds like the saddest outcome of all. I’d rather be here and him not want me here than not be here when he hopes I am.

Kevin called last week and said Samson was approved for early release. I knew that’s what he was going to tell me before I even answered his phone call because Kevin never calls me. I’m the one who calls him to check if there are updates. I call him so much, I’m probably more annoying to him than a telemarketer.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the hood, eating an apple I just pulled out of my bag. I’ve been here going on four hours now.

There’s a man in the car next to me who is also waiting on someone to be released. He gets out to stretch his legs and then leans against his car. “Who are you here for?” he asks.

I don’t know how to answer that, so I shrug. “An old friend who may not even want me here.”

He kicks at a rock. “I’m here for my brother. Third time picking him up. Hopefully this will be his last go.”

“Hopefully,” I say. But I doubt it. I’ve learned enough about the prison system during my time in college that I have very little faith in the system’s ability to properly rehabilitate offenders.

It’s why I’m in law school now. I’m convinced Samson wouldn’t be in the position he’s in if he would have had better access to resources when he was released the first time. Even if I don’t end up with Samson by the end of this, I’ve ended up with a new passion because of it.

“What time do they usually open the doors?” I ask the man.

The guy looks at his watch. “I figured it would be before lunch. They’re running behind today.”

I reach into my bag that’s sitting on the hood next to me. “You hungry? I have chips.”

He holds up his hands, so I toss them at him. “Thanks,” he says, opening the bag. He pops one into his mouth. “Good luck with your friend.”

I smile. “Good luck to your brother.”

I take another bite of my apple and lean back onto my windshield. I lift my arm and run my fingers over my pinwheel tattoo.

I hated this tattoo after Samson was arrested. It was supposed to bring me good luck, but instead it felt like my world became worse than before I moved to Texas. It took at least a year for me to fully appreciate this tattoo.

Aside from everything that happened with Samson being arrested, every other aspect of my life improved after getting this tattoo. I became closer to my father and his new family. Sara is not only my sister now, but my absolute best friend in the world.

I got accepted to law school. I never would have thought when I picked up a volleyball for the first time as a kid that it would lead to me becoming a lawyer. Me. The lonely girl who once had to do unthinkable things to feed herself is going to be a damn lawyer.

I think maybe this tattoo really did turn my luck around in the end. Not in the way I expected it to in that moment, but now that I’m at this point in my life, I can see all the good things that came from that summer. Samson being one of those good things, no matter who he is today. I’m at a point in my life where the outcome of my future won’t be determined by the outcome of any potential relationship.

Do I want him to be who I’ve always believed him to be? Absolutely.

Will I crumble if he isn’t? Not at all.

I am still made of steel. Come at me, world. You can’t damage the impermeable.

“The door is opening,” the man in the car next to me says.

I immediately sit up and drop my apple into my bag next to me.

I press my palm against my chest and exhale as someone begins to exit the building. It isn’t Samson.

I would slide off the car and stand up, but I’m scared my legs are too weak to hold me. I’m about twenty feet away from the entrance, but there’s a chance he won’t see me if he’s not expecting someone to be waiting for him.

The man who just walked out looks to be in his fifties. He scans the parking lot until he finds the car next to mine. He nods his head and his brother doesn’t even get out of his car. The man walks over and climbs into the passenger seat and they take off like this is an airport and these trips are normal.