Page 38 of Escaping Our Reality

Actually, let’s not call it love-struck. Let’s call it ‘like-struck’.

She’s engrossed in another crime documentary and absentmindedly reaches behind her and starts rubbing her neck again.

That’s it. I’m taking her to a doctor.

“Lulu, scoot closer.” We’re sitting on the loveseat, and I reach around, pushing her hips closer to mine. Without getting her permission, I push her head forward and wrap her glossy hair around my fist.

“Ry?”

That’s when I see it. A pink, puffy scar on the back of her neck. I reach out, brushing it with my calloused fingertips. When her body shudders, my dick jumps in my jeans. “You have a scar.”

“Yes. How did you know? Was I touching it again?”

“Again?”

“I apparently do it a lot. Carrie is trying to break me of the habit.”

“What happened?” Releasing her hair, I pull her back against my shoulder. Now that’s she sitting right next to me, there’s no need for her to move away.

Accepting the new position, she snuggles closer to my side. The winter air is mild tonight, and the fire alone provides just the right amount of warmth. “Carrie burnt me with a curling iron when we were little. We were playing beauty pageant and she was trying to curl my hair. Burnt my hair right off too. I had to get three inches cut off. My mom was furious. She actually made me wear a hairpiece for our Christmas card pictures.”

“Tell me about them. Your parents.”

“They’re horrible people.”

I open my mouth to placate her concern.

“Ry, don’t. Some things in life can’t be denied. This is one of those things. My parents are not nice people.”

She grabs my hand and starts tracing my work scars with her fingertips. It makes the back of my throat tickle. It feels nice. Real nice.

“My dad came from a good household. Nice, hard-working, middle-class parents. I know he did because my Uncle Ray turned out to be such a nice guy. You would love him, by the way. But he always said that something was different about Dad. Like something boiling beneath the surface. This urge to think he was better than everyone around him, that the world owed him something because he was handsome and smart. You’ve heard of gold-digging women? Well, I guess you could call my dad a gold-digging man. According to my Aunt Teresa, my dad’s whole goal while at college was to find a rich girl to hook up with. He moved far away from home, went to the University of Texas.

“Well, guess who went there too? Miss Susan Oglesby. Debutante and granddaughter of a dead oil tycoon. Dad swept her off her feet. All Mom saw was a handsome, pre-med student who could one day give her the prestige she craved. All Dad saw was a good-looking, future-housewife set to inherit millions on her twenty-second birthday. They got married right after graduation and Dad had all of his medical school expenses paid by his young, rich, newlywed wife.”

She frowns at a small scar on my thumb—one caused by a socket wrench— and plants a small kiss on it, trying to make it better, even though the injury is over two years old. “I guess it really made my grandmother angry, my mom’s mom. Apparently, she thought my father was below the desired, old-money pedigree that my mother deserved. She disowned my mom. She lives in some fancy retirement village in Florida. I’ve never even met her.

“Anyway, Dad became a general surgeon, came back here, and used Mom’s money to build his own practice. It’s that huge building down by the river. Hill, Vann, and Weaver Surgical Artsand Concepts. My dad is the general surgeon, Phillip Vann is the orthopedic, and Mary Ann Weaver is the cardio-thoracic. They each have their own floor. There’s a pharmacy there too, and a therapy place. So, now Dad makes his own millions. And Mom is his trophy-wife.

“His favorite hobby is what Carrie and I call sex-spin-the-wheel. He just spins the wheel to see which lucky mistress will have him in her bed that night. Mom’s favorite hobby is what Carrie and I call jealousy-spin-the wheel. She just spins the wheel to see what lucky item she’s gonna buy that day to try and make other people jealous. A car, an outfit, a diamond ring? The possibilities are endless.”

She sits up straight, adjusting to look me in the eyes. I like it when she looks me in the eyes. “Do you know that I technically don’t live with my parents?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Let’s be real. My parents didn’t really want kids. They just had us because that’s what they were supposed to do. They actually couldn’t stand having us around, making noise, playing, interrupting them. They built a whole other wing to the house, connected by a breezeway. Alongbreezeway. We—me and Carrie—have a kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a laundry room. Separate entrance, separate driveway.”

She fakes an English accent and tosses her hand in the air, faking high elegance. “The Children’s Wing.” She giggles at herself. “Anyway, that’s when they hired Janine. We needed someone to live with us. Carrie and I had one room, and Janine had the other. And that’s when I stopped trying. At five years old, I knew it was pointless to win my parents’ love. I was theirthing. Their pretty little daughter to dress up and show off only when the need arose, but nothing more. So, that’s what they get. I givethem what they want and keep the real stuff in here.” She points to her heart.

Her eyes cloud with thought and her brow furrows. “They made everything about Carrie’s disappearance about them. I don’t know if you’ve watched any of the interviews they did, but they’re painful. They’ve used my sister’s case to give them some sort of celebrity status. The last time they went to New York City to do the circuit of news shows, they actually requested a fully stocked dressing room, a Presidential suite at the Plaza, and a personal driver.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Except they sound like exquisitely perfect douchebags.

She shakes her head, clearing her eyes. “Ry, you mentioned marshmallows? Can we cook them?”

When she told me that she had never had campfire s’mores before, I nearly fell out of my chair. I stopped at the dollar store after leaving work today and bought graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars.

I stare at her, watching her innocent eyes widen in delight when I nod. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be with me. She’s too good. Too perfect. I need to tell her to leave. Right now.

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