Page 19 of Escaping Our Reality

I open one of the storage containers. It’s filled to the brim. Flashlights, lanterns, fire starters, tarps, towels, gallons of sealed, purified water. I walk to the other side of the campsite. I don’t open the storage containers on that side, assuming they hold the same necessities as the other one. There’s a walkway into the woods, lit by some of the solar lamps.

Eventually, I make my way back to the firepit. I start to sit in one of the Adirondack chairs, but quickly rethink my decision. That reclines too far back. I need to sit upright in case I need to make a quick getaway.

I mean, maybe—just maybe—Ryisa chainsaw murderer, despite what I feel and despite what he said. Not that I saw evidence of any tools of the trade while I was snooping, but you never know.

My seating debacle amuses him, and he hides his smile with his fingertips. Which really pisses me off. One, I don’t want him to laugh at me. Two, I really like it when he smiles. Number two pisses me off more, I think.

Trying to control the situation, I break the silence. “You don’t live with your brother?”

“Hell no. I only go there when I have to. The last thing I need is to be caught in the middle of the shitstorm Trash calls life.”

“So, you live here?”

He shrugs. The movement of his strong shoulders mesmerizes me. “About half the time, yeah.”

“And the other half?”

“Harlan has a room at the garage. Small bathroom. Kitchen. I stay there. But I don’t want him to feel like I’m taking advantage of him. Plus, he has poker nights with his buddies on Tuesday and Friday nights. And he and his grandson work on cars Saturday night. I give them their space.”

“What about your parents? Why not stay with them? Or rent some place of your own?”

He clears his throat, shuffling in his chair. “Let’s just say that my parents make Trash’s shitshow look like a kids’ cartoon.”

He doesn’t answer the rent your own place question. Maybe he thinks I’m being nosy. I guess I should stop asking questions. I chew my lip in thought. Instead, I ignore my good sense. I always do. “Why were you at the party tonight, then? If you only go to his house when you have to? Was the party a ‘have to’ kind of thing?”

“Wi-Fi.”

“Huh?”

“I needed his Wi-Fi to work on a paper.”

Well, that’s not the answer I was expecting. “Why not use your phone? Turn on your hotspot?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

Well, that answer is even more shocking. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

“Lulu, I’m living in a tent. You think I have money for a cell phone and a data plan? All of my money goes toward gas, food, tuition. It’s not like Harlan is paying me a massive salary. He gives me a room, and he gives me this.” He waves his hands around him.

“What do you mean?”

“This land belonged to my grandfather.” He turns away, studying the glow of the moonlight reflecting on the pond. His profile is so handsome, it takes my breath away, drying my throat, making me feel like a dehydrated castaway searching for an oasis. “He was supposed to build his dream house here. But my grandma got sick, and he needed money. Harlan bought the land so it wouldn’t go to some stranger. When my grandpa died, Harlan tried to give the land back to me, but I wouldn’t let him. So, I defer some of my wages. We count it as a monthly payment.One day, I’ll be someone. I’ll have something to show for this crap life. Then I’ll buy it back and build my dream house.”

One part of that horribly sad story sticks out to me. Sticks out like a sore thumb. “You are someone.”

“Huh?” He turns back to face me.

“You said one day you’ll be someone. Youaresomeone.”

Ry’s stare is so intense it grabs the soul from my body and shakes it. Violently. Fiercely. Passionately.

Breaking the tension, I point out the obvious. “That’s what coffee shops are for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Free Wi-Fi. Buy a cup of coffee and you can have hours of internet usage.”

He smirks. “I guess you’re right. I’ve just never seen myself as much of a coffeehouse kind of guy.”

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