Page 112 of Escaping Our Reality

I snort. “Who said anything about that bitch-ass school?” I smirk. “You deserve better. And I think I have just the place.” Apparently, my smile is infectious because it quickly spreads to her face, and she jumps into my arms. I hug her tight, lifting her feet off the ground just the way she likes.

She wraps her hands around my neck and kisses my lips. She tastes like sunshine and chlorine and strawberries.

“You look so handsome.”

“I’d better. I had to sell a kidney to rent this thing.” We stumble through the door and I kick it closed with my shoe.I gently place her feet back on the ground. “You better go get ready. I’m like Cinderella. I turn back into a greaseball mechanic at midnight.”

“Good thing I like greaseball mechanics.” She folds her arms over her chest. “But I didn’t get a prom dress because I knew I wasn’t gonna go.”

“You’re telling me that out of all the stupid, fancy functions your parents drag you to, you don’t have something that will work?”

She bites her cheek, fighting a smile. “I can find something.”

I shoo her away. “Well, go. I’m setting a timer for forty-five minutes. Alarm goes off, and this chariot leaves.”

She doesn’t even make a smartass comment. She’s already racing down the hall. Forty-two minutes later, she emerges. And forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds later, I officially turn in my ‘man card’.

I’m over. I’m done.

I’ve stopped being a person of my own mind, body, and soul. Everything I have, everything I am, belongs to Lulu. She carries my heart around in her hand like a talisman, dragging me from place to place. I meant what I said to her. Never before. Never after.

Just like the first night I met her, everything about her screams money. She’s curled her hair and piled it high into some sort of messy bun. Her eye makeup is a little heavier than normal, gray and smudgy, like she just woke up from a nap. Her black lace dress is short, but not obscenely short. Not like what most girls her age would wear. The straps on her dress are those string things that look like they may break if I tug too hard. Normally, Lulu would wear a sweater over something like this, favoring modesty in case she runs into one of those people she has to be ‘Ella’ with. But not today. Not tonight. And her heelsare some of the highest heels I’ve ever seen her wear. She has to be nearly as tall as me.

I turn off the TV and flip the remote somewhere into the abyss of the room. She moves with such grace, such beauty. I can’t take my eyes off her. Not even for one second.

“You’re quiet. Do you like what you see?”

“Lulu, you’re breathtaking.”

She squares her shoulders and tosses her chin in the air. “And I still have two minutes to spare.”

I press myself into her. She’s so tall. With legs for miles and miles. “And just what can we do in two minutes?”

She presses her nose against mine. “Why don’t you stick your tongue in my mouth and I’ll show you.”

Damn good plan with me.

Eventually we have to stop kissing. Literally. I’m dizzy. Low oxygen. “Alright, grab your things. It’s time to get this party started. Mine or yours?”

“Yours! The truck is what we always have to drive for surprises,” she says, confirming what I already knew she would say.

As soon as we’re in the truck, I slide the white calla lily corsage on her wrist. She wraps her fingers around mine, refusing to let go of my hand. I have to drive the entire way one-handed. She’s confused when I go past the turn for the homestead, though.

“Ry?”

I lift her hand, kissing her knuckle. “Just a little detour.”

I pull onto the shoulder when we get to the small yellow house with white shutters. The long driveway is lined on either side with blooming orange rose bushes.

Her throat makes a strange noise before she whispers. “Orange roses.”

“This was my grandparents’ house. This is the place where I spent the best years of my childhood.” A cynical chuckle rumbles low in my chest. “And, of course, Grandma was right…” my voice trails off as I wave a hand at the hundreds and hundreds of roses.

She remembers plants but not me.

Fuck Alzheimer’s.

She touches the windshield. “It’s a beautiful house. Which room was yours?”

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