Page 32 of Escaping Our Reality

She likes it. She likes me coming for her. Fighting for her.

I know she does. Because I like it too.

I stop mere inches from her. I reach out, wrap my fingers around her waist, and tug her against me. Her hips are soft yet firm. Her pupils dilate in anticipation, and it doesn’t gounnoticed by me that she takes a deep breath, plumping her breasts between our bodies. I bend my head so she can hear me better against the sounds of the night. “You stray, looking for trouble. What else would you have me do? Besides, it looks like I’m the one who heeled to you.”

“Is it time to kiss me again?” Her whisper sends a live electric current pulsing through my entire body.

Her eyelids grow heavy with want and her arms lift, ready to circle around my shoulders. Nimbly I pull from her grasp.

That doesnotmake her happy. Hell, it doesn’t make me happy either.

But I have to take my time with Lulu. I can’t rush all of our kisses. Why? Because I’m on borrowed time. Hours? Days? Weeks? It won’t be long until she realizes that I have nothing to offer. No plan. No future. No stability.

A loser.

A selfish loser who’s willing to use desire to draw out the inevitable.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“And just why not?”

“Because it’s suppertime. Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich.” I grab her hand and drag her back in the garage.

***

“Lettuce, tomato, and cheese?”

Squaring her shoulders, she politely nods, but there’s a little glint in her eye, telling me something not’s right. I pause, freezing my hand over the sliced chicken sandwich. “Lulu,” I warn.

She blinks and forces herself to shrug. “Sorry. I’m used to agreeing to everything in restaurants to make it easier. I don’t like tomatoes, Ry.”

“Okay. No big deal.”

She pops a cheese cracker in her mouth. “I like tomato soup and ketchup, but I don’t like tomatoes.”

“Well, I like French fries and baked potatoes, but I can’t stand hash browns, tater tots, or mashed potatoes.”

She giggles. That simple noise makes my heart heroically swell like I just saved a drowning kitten or something.

“No mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving? How un-American.”

“Well, I haven’t had a true Thanksgiving meal in years. Not since before my grandma got sick.” I set the sandwiches on the table and take a seat next to her. Maybe a little too close to her…and we start eating.

Our first meal together.

“That’s terrible,” she says. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well, she was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s when I was a freshman in high school. The first year wasn’t so bad. She just turned a little forgetful. ‘Where’s the car keys? Did I leave the stove on?’ Then, it was like the dripping faucet turned into a fire hydrant. It got bad quick. Neither me nor Grandpa could safely take care of her. He found a great place for her. But it was private. No Medicare. They had other insurance, but it wasn’t all that great either. So, my grandpa sold the land to get money. He visited her three times a day. The commute back and forth from town three times a day was wearing on him. A year later, he sold his house and moved into a small apartment near the nursing home. That’s when I started staying here, at the garage. It was my senior year of high school, and I didn’t wanna switch schools.”

“You lived with your grandparents?” she asks.

“Yep. My mom’s parents. Moved in with them when I was ten. Trash was in juvie for the first time. My grandparents tried to get custody of both of us numerous times. But my parents would clean up just long enough to convince Child Services that they had their shit together. They received food stamps andother welfare income for us. That’s why they didn’t want to give us up.”

She has a dollop of mayonnaise on the side of her lip. Her napkin keeps missing it. I reach over with the pad of my thumb, wipe it, and suck the sweetness from my finger. Her tongue darts out to lick the skin I just touched.

It’s so damn distracting, I have to clear my throat, giving myself a second to remember where I was. “Anyway, Trash was in juvie, and Grandpa showed up on the doorstep. Said my parents had two choices, they could let him take me and he wouldn’t tell anyone, they could keep claiming me as a dependent and get all of my benefits. Or, they could keep me, and he would hire the best damn attorney in the state and fight until he had me and they had nothing. They shoved me out the door without even packing me a suitcase.”

Tears moisten her eyes and she reaches over, wrapping her fingers across my calloused hand. Her nails are painted navy and her fingers are long and slender. I rub my thumb slowly back and forth across her smooth, olive skin.

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