I arch an eyebrow at him. "It really is just something about me in particular?" I suppress a laugh. "Or maybe two things in particular?"
"Now you're just being mean," he mutters. "I'm not that shallow, I swear."
"Uh-huh," I tease. "Su-u-u-ure." I draw the word out into several syllables.
"I'm not!"
I burst into laughter. "Omygod, Relax. I'm just fucking with you. You're good. It's totally fine. I'm not that easily offended. And if I'm being honest, the attention doesn't suck. I haven't felt attractive in a long time." I slap my hand over my mouth. "I didnotmean to say that out loud."
Felix is quiet for a while, and I catch him shooting pondering looks at me. Finally, as we roll up to a stoplight, he allows himself a long, lingering look into my eyes. "I'd like to know what that means, but I don't want to push you to talk about something if you're not ready."
"I…" I sigh, shaking my head. "It's all tangled up, Felix. All the shit that's wrong with me is one big jumbled up mess of baggage."
"You can talk to me, you know. I won't judge. I won't push. I know I can't fix anything. But I can listen." The light turns green, and he returns his focus to the road, but I feel his attention on me even when he's not looking at me.
“That's very sweet, Felix. I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. I'm just…I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it. Not just with you, but anyone. Even Faye, I've only sort of touched on some things. She's a wise old bird, though, so she sorta gets the stuff I'm not saying."
He nods. "I get it. It's fine. But just consider it a standing, open-ended offer. Any time day or night, if you wanna talk, I wanna listen."
My heart melts a little more because it's obvious he means it. And part of me wants to open up to him. Part of me wants to let him in, to share my painful history with him. But something still stops me. Fear? A reticence to open up those wounds that haven’t even really scabbed over yet?
"What about you?" I ask. "What's your story, morning glory?"
He shrugs. "Not much of one."
"Oh, come on. Give me something."
He tips his head to one side. "I have a brother, Riley. He runs the demo side of the company."
"Are you close with him?” I ask.
He nods. "Yeah, we are close. We weren't always, though. We fought a lot as boys, especially in high school. He's younger by a couple years, so he was always tagging along and annoying the shit outta me and my friends. And then he sorta got into some trouble and did some time. When he was released, he struggled to find his place again, not just in society but the community as a whole, and our family. He struggled to find a job…it was a rough time for him. That's when we bonded. I had a demo crew that was short-staffed at the time so I put him with them, and he just…took off. He loved it. Eventually, he developed a program to help other convicts with the things he struggled with."
"What's the program?" I ask.
"Oh, it's a work-release thing. He works directly with Holbrook Correctional facility. They put him in touch with inmates that have clean inmate records—meaning, model prisoners, no fights, no demerits, none of that shit. He interviews them and if he accepts them into his program, they work for him on one of his demo crews. They get bussed here to the yard, put in a full day's paid work, and then get bussed back to the prison. There's a deputy from the prison on site at all times. They put in five years on the crew, and if they're well reviewed by Riley, they're eligible for early parole. Once paroled, they keep working for him, which sort of functions as an additional aspect of their parole. They still have to check in with their parole officer, but not as frequently as long as Riley delivers good regular reports of their behavior."
"That's pretty cool, actually,” I say.
"Well, that's not the cool part. There are work release programs everywhere. What sets his apart is that their wages, instead of just being paid directly to them, go into an escrow account, part of which goes to pay off their financial obligation to the prison, and the rest goes into savings so they have money to live off of when they get out."
"Wait, what? Financial obligation to the prison?"
He nods. "Jail ain't free, sweetheart. Prisons are privately owned. It’s a multi-billion-dollar industry. So yeah, a lot of guys come out of prison heavily in debt, can’t get a job, and often have nowhere to go and no car. It's punishment on top of punishment. Riley will be the first to say that he fucked up, and he deserved the sentence he got. But the rest of what he went through was wholly unnecessary and unjust, so he set out trying to fix it, at least as far as he could. When his guys get released, he personally picks them up from Holbrook, sets them up with a debit card so they have access to their money, and he has a deal with one of the apartment complexes in town—they always have a unit open so when his guys get out, they have a place to stay and enough money saved up to afford it. He picks them up and drives them to and from work until they can get their own car."
“That's really, really, amazing," I say. "He sounds like a great guy."
He grins. "I dunno about that. He's still a hothead and a hound dog, but yeah, he's got a great heart under all that. I'm proud of him. He's made some good out of his experiences."
I smile at him. "It has not escaped my notice, you know."
"What hasn't?" he asks, sounding perplexed.
“Your little redirection," I say. "I asked you about you, and you talked about your brother."
He shrugs. "He's my brother. He's a big feature in my life." He grins at me. "I said I won't push, and I won't, but I ain't gonna be the only one to get into my deep shit."
I nod. "That's fair."
