Page 35 of Escaping Our Reality

I quickly make room for him, staring at the objects in his hands. He sits down and I immediately get butterflies in my stomach just from his proximity. He’s wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt tonight with jeans that are a little bit tighter around his thighs than some of the other pairs he has.

He also hasn’t shaved. The two-day scruff is a major turn-on, making him look older, more dangerous. More feral.

He reaches over, covering me with a thick quilt. And then he wraps one of his thin white garage towels around an ice-filled plastic bag. Grabbing my battered left hand, he tenderly touches my scrapes and bruises, studying my face for pain. Gently laying my hand in his lap—very near his crotch—he covers it with the ice pack. “Doesn’t look like anything is broken.”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You plan on telling me what happened?”

“No.”

“Well, I suggest you quickly modify your plans, then.”

Sighing, I debate on telling a lie.

He cocks his head and squints his eyes. “And so help me, if you lie to me, Lulu, I’ll flip my shit.”

I snort. “Well, that’s kind of what happened to me.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I flipped my crap,” I admit.

I tell him about what happened with Catie just a few hours ago. He’s not happy, that’s for sure. He doesn’t interrupt, but his jaw tenses and the muscle in it constantly twitches. It’s actually pretty cute. A few times the tension has him squeezing my hand a little too hard. When he sees me wince, he eases up, realizing what he’s unintentionally doing. Each time, he rubs his thumb in small circles against the back of my wrist, trying to soothe the bite of his grip.

When I’m finished, he swallows, bobbing his Adam’s apple. He doesn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you gonna say something? Say I told you so.”

“I may be an asshole, Lulu, but I try not to be petty. So, no, I’m not gonna tell you I told you so. I actually wish you would’ve proven me wrong. It’s your sister we’re talking about. Yourmissingsister. You want her home. And I want her home with you. I also wish her friends would prove my theory wrong. I wish her friends would stand up for her and do what’s right. But they’re addicts. And that’s one thing I know about. I’ve lived with it my whole life. Their most fierce and loyal love is the addiction.”

I try to discreetly shift closer to him. He smells like soap and firewood smoke. Chuckling under his breath, he wraps his free arm around me and pulls me against his side. He’s not discreet. He’s purpose driven.

Eventually my stiff shoulders and back begin to ache, and I sink down against him, resting my head in that perfect divot where his shoulder meets his chest. I pull my legs up beside me on the seat, making myself more comfortable.

He leans close to my ear, sending a rippling shiver down the base of my spine. “Why crime and murder shows?”

“Hmm?”

“We’ve watched TV together twice. Last night at the garage and tonight. Both times, it was crime documentaries. Why?”

I shrug. “Intrigue. Fascination. Research.”

“Research?”

“Well, you didn’t just become a great mechanic overnight, did you? You studied different makes and models. Learned the fine details of the process. It’s pretty obvious that whatever happened to Carrie involves a crime. I need to study it. Learn about it. Grow from it. If I ever plan on finding her, I need to become proficient in the art.”

He wants to chastise me. Order me to stop. Demand I stop looking for answers. But he doesn’t. “Tell me about her. What was she like growing up? Tell me about what happened.”

I reach around to the back of my neck, rubbing my scar while I think. How do you start? How do you begin to tell a story that’s still being told? One whose epilogue is yet to be written?

“She’s an amazing big sister. And I’m not just saying that, Ry. She really is. I know your parents are terrible parents. Mine are too, just in a different way. So, it was always me and Carrie. She’s a big sister, best friend, and mother wrapped into one. Everything I learned, I learned from her. Well, her and our nanny, Janine. Janine was hired when I was five and Carrie was eight. She lived with us. She moved to Arizona to be with family when Carrie turned sixteen and could drive.

“Anyway, she’s always been beautiful. Those big blue eyes, that blonde hair, that flawless skin. When we would play princess, I always wanted her to be the princess and me be the maid. That part just fit her. My Princess Carrie.”

I pull my hand down, snuggling against him and relishing the feel of his hard body supporting mine. He removes the ice pack, setting it on the ground beside him, and he pulls the blanket closer around my body. I can’t believe I’m letting all of my guards down around him. I never snuggle with anyone. Ever.

Except Carrie.

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