Page 50 of Escaping Our Reality

I rub my hands over my face. And there you have it. The pitfalls of dating a poor, homeless man. Why doesn’t she leave me? Why doesn’t she find someone better? Someone like this Hudson guy. He can probably buy her what she deserves for her birthday. Some diamond earrings or some bullshit like that.

She needs to leave me.

Oh God, please don’t let her leave me.

“I was gonna tell you. Just not tomorrow—I mean, today. I was gonna wait until Saturday.”

Doesn’t she realize how bad I would feel if I missed her birthday. Doesn’t she realize that I may not be able to buy her the sun, but I’d at least like to be given the opportunity to capture it for her.

“Ry, say something.”

I lower my voice, speaking slowly and clearly. “Don’t do that again, Lulu. Don’t hide something from me and take away my choices. Buying something for you wouldn’t be an obligation. And who in the world said presents have to be bought. A true gift is given. Freely and willingly. Don’t take away my options and say it’s for my benefit.” I pace across the garage and grab a water from the fridge. “Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

I open it and drink half the bottle in one swallow. “So, what are your plans with your parents?”

“They always take me out to eat for my birthday and then shower me with an expensive, last-minute present that has absolutely no thought put into it whatsoever.”

“Last minute?”

“My parents usually forget my birthday, until at least midday when Carrie calls to remind them. And then Dad will have his assistant throw something together. You know, nothing says ‘Happy Birthday’ like asking your mistress to buy a present for your daughter. But I’m pretty sure he lets her get something for herself too, so she’s probably been counting down the days, eagerly awaiting Dad slapping the credit card in her hand. Last time I saw her, she was wearing the exact same pair of white gold and emerald earrings they gave me for my fifteenth birthday.”

Talk about fucked up. “Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day, and they can’t remember that?”

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

Well, screw that. And screw them.

***

Me: How is dinner with the parents going?

Lulu: Really good. Thanks.

In the time we’ve known each other, I’ve heard Lulu describe her parents in many ways, and ‘really good’ has never been one of them.

Me: Where did they take you?

Lulu: I’ll call you in a while.

Lulu’s avoiding my questions and being evasive.

She’s not at dinner. If she was, she would tell me more about it. She wouldn’t leave me hanging like this. I sigh in frustration. Here we are. Two completely different sets of parents, and both of them shitheads.

Looks like Lulu is getting her present from me early.

***

“Lulu, if you make me knock on this door one more time, I’m gonna bust it down.”

She opens the door and my fucking heart breaks in two.

You can tell she’s been crying. Her expertly applied eye makeup is a little smudged, her caramel eyes are red, and her nose is pink and splotchy from blowing it. She’s dressed up tonight—high-heel ankle boots, tight black dress pants, and a beautiful red shirt. Red for Valentine’s Day, I guess. Her hair is in this weird braid thing, hanging over one side of her shoulder. It’s weird, but really pretty.

But what hurts the most is that Ella answers the door. Not Lulu.

Her back is stiff, her shoulders are square, and her head is tilted high in the air. She walks away, leaving me to close the door. Sitting on her couch, she crosses her legs, and turns down the volume on the TV. I look over my shoulder to see one of her crime shows playing.

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