Page 82 of Finding Our Reality

Knowing all of this, I do the only thing I can think of doing. Removing the shower head from its perch, I let the water pour over my engorged clit. My eyes squint closed so hard, they hurt. Imagining his body sliding in and out of mine, his baby growing inside of me, I come all over his expensive shower tile.

And I don’t even bother to rinse my juices down the drain.

When I leave, I want to leave a part of me behind.

As soon as I’m clean, I slip back into my bra and panties and T-shirt. My clothes are still damp, so I unabashedly pilfer through his dresser. The second drawer I open holds his underwear. I tug a pair of black boxer briefs over my panties. Quickly making his bed, I grab my dress clothes and tiptoe out of the bedroom. I’m on the second floor of the home so I would assume Ry is downstairs or outside.

Turns out, the upstairs has four bedrooms—the master and three others. One bedroom is basically empty. One bedroom has a modest double-size bed and a dresser; a guest room, I’m guessing. The other bedroom is fit for a little princess. Decorated in pink and white and silver, there’s a canopy queen-size bed, a bookshelf filled with dozens of books, and a dollhouse filled with miniature furniture and a miniature little family.

I check my pulse, making sure I’m still alive because seeing this almost stops my heart.

Walking down the steps, an uneasy feeling pools low in my stomach, like I’m forgetting something. Like something not’s quite right. Anxiety gnaws at my brain, even worse than the hangover headache. Like a zombie, I walk from room to room. Open floorplan. Living room. Half bath. Ry’s office. A large rec room with a connected full bathroom. Laundry room. Mudroom. And a huge kitchen with oversized appliances and an island running nearly the entire length.

He built our house.

Ry built our house.

The one I designed all those years ago.

Tossing my clothes on the kitchen table, I stumble to the five-gallon water jug in the corner and fill up a glass of water. I down two glasses before the thick cotton strangling my throat starts to dissolve.

Why didn’t he say anything?

Why didn’t I ask?

The hardwood floors creak underneath my bare feet. The heavy wooden front door stands wide open, and a glass storm door is my only protection from what waits for me on the outside. Hanging on the wall, framed and preserved, are my sketches of the house. I don’t even remember him taking those. I also can’t believe he saved them.

I drag my fingers through my damp hair, pushing the waves from my face. I don’t even know if I have the strength to take a step out onto the front porch. All I want to do is collapse. Go back in time—twelve years, to be exact—and live the life I was meant to live. Here, with him.

But then I remember who I am. Holding my head high, I open the door.

The slats of the front porch are polished smooth and painted white. Right next to the door is a pair of black rubber rain boots. Slipping my feet into them, they slap loudly against the floor and knock back and forth against my shins as I walk.

They obviously belong to Ry; they’re huge.

Holding onto the rail so I don’t face plant, I clamber down the stairs and race into the yard. Turning around, I shield my eyes against the glare of the sun and take a good long look atmyhouse.

White siding. Green shutters. Stone veneer. Wraparound porch. Rocking chairs. Porch swing. Huge dining table. The connected garage is to the left. Farther to the left is a separate building. It looks like another garage. Workshop, maybe? I stare at the house until my body aches from being in the same position. When I finally turn back toward the pond, I see Ry standing there, watching me.

He’s on the dock. And he’s not alone. Patting the little girl on the shoulder, he says something to her. She nods, but is otherwise completely engrossed in casting her rod and reel.

In a foggy haze, I somehow find enough coordination to put one foot in front of the other. We meet mid-way, on the concrete patio, next to the firepit. The place we always talked, the place we watched documentary after documentary on my computer, the hub of our homestead for all those wonderful months.

And if my brain fog wasn’t thick enough between the lingering effects of the Long Island Iced Teas and the knowledge that my former lover built me a house, Ry adds more confusion to the pot by not wearing a shirt. Sweat glistens on every single inch of his deliciously sculpted body. His cargo shorts hang low at the waist. My mouth waters involuntarily when his hands land on his hips, showcasing the firm cut of his pelvic muscles and the band of his boxer briefs that match the ones I’m wearing. His tennis shoes are covered in mud from the edge of the pond. A baseball cap shades his face from view.

“Damn, Lulu. I expected many things from you today, but seeing you in my clothes was not one of them.” I look down at the boxer briefs I’m wearing like shorts and the rain boots. He chuckles, low and heady. “You’re fucking torturing me.” Unashamed, he grabs his crotch and quickly adjusts the growing erection in his shorts.

I try not to blush. Really, I do. But it’s hard not to when I know exactly what those cargo shorts are hiding. I quickly reachbehind my neck and rub my scar. “You’re the one without a shirt on.”

He lifts the ballcap from his head and turns it around, giving me a chance to study his face. When his arms raise, my fingers twitch to touch the contours of his ribs.

He licks his lips. “Maybe a part of me wanted to play our game. What would you think of that?”

I toss a hand at the house. “Is that what this was, Ry? A game?”

His jaw clenches. “You have to be more specific. Are you talking about the house itself? Or the fact that I brought you here? Because it should be pretty self-explanatory why I brought you here. You were drunk off your ass and getting yourself into trouble by pretending to go home with a strange man.”

I lower my head in shame. Then, I remember who I am and why I’m mad and hold my head high once again. “I apologize for the trouble I put you through. Thank you for your hospitality, but I should give you some alone time with your daughter. I don’t want to intrude. I’ll call Holt or Raylee for a ride. I saw my purse and cell phone in the kitchen.”

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