Page 77 of Escaping Our Reality

“You work here? Harlan hire someone new?”

“I just help out on occasion, ma’am.” I pick up my phone, quickly opening the note section. “So, I’ll be happy to relay your request for some vehicle work or maintenance. I can take the information right here. Name?”

“I don’t need my car worked on. I need to speak with my son.”

I look into her eyes. Her green eyes. Eyes that should be vibrant and nearly transparent. But they look dead. Void of life. My heart drops to the bottom of my shoes. “Your son?”

She doesn’t have to answer. Ry protectively snags his hand around my waist, pushing my body behind his. “Hello, Mom.”

“There’s my boy.” She reaches out, standing on her tiptoes, trying to wrap him in an awkward hug. He flicks his head to the side, trying to avoid her kiss. She misses his cheek and pecks him on the neck instead.

“What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to come check on you.”

I peep around Ry’s massive shoulders. “If this is about the fight, I’m sorry, ma’am. It was completely my fault.”

“Luella,” Ry warns.

Uh-oh. I don’t think I can even recall a time when Ry has used my true, given name. And that worries me. I quickly decide that obeying his intended warning is the smartest thing to do. I clamp my mouth shut. It’s really hard, but I do it anyway.

Besides, I really need to stop calling her ma’am. She’s a terrible mother. And a terrible daughter. She shouldn’t have ‘ma’am’ status in my book.

“What fight? Did you get into a fight?”

“It’s nothing. Just a disagreement with your other son,” he answers.

She cackles, reaching around to her back pocket to grab a cigarette. “That’s good. Brothers are supposed to tussle every now and then.”

Ry plucks the cigarette from her mouth before she can light it, breaking it in half. “I tell you every single time you come here that there’s no smoking in the garage.” His body is so damn tense, it looks like his muscles might actually break.

She runs her tongue across her teeth, biting back what she really wants to say. My phone pings with another text message from Kristie, drawing her unwanted gaze to me. She looks at the positions of our bodies, immediately realizing that we are more than mere coworkers. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your little friend.”

I’m not little.

“Cindy Crutchfield, this is Luella Hill.”

Cindy spreads her arms through the air. “And Luella is your…?” She pauses, wanting Ry to fill in the blanks.

“Luella is my business.” His tone leaves nothing up for discussion.

She grunts. Tiring of this standoff, she begins meandering through the garage. Sidestepping us, she heads for the kitchen. “I’m just gonna grab a quick drink.”

Leaning his head back, he sighs in frustration. In anger. I slide my hand up his spine. He’s never felt so rigid before. We take a few steps to follow her when we are both caught off guard by the sound of a car door slamming shut. Spinning around, we see a tall, lanky man walking across the parking lot. He must’ve been on the passenger’s side of the car, hidden by the shadows of the near dark sky.

Ry curses under his breath.

He’s about two inches shorter than Ry. Ry’s height must come from his father’s side of the family. His hair is dark brown with gray around the edges. Wrinkles frame his face—wrinkles from drinking too hard, partying too hard, living too hard. Thin arms and thin legs. Beer belly.

Just like his wife, and just like his other son, you can catch glimpses of what might have been. Glimpses of the handsome, distinguished man underneath it all. Underneath the pile of shit.

“Crutch, your Momma come in here?”

“You know she did, so why ask the question?”

He points his finger at Ry. “Don’t be such a smartass.”

“Then don’t ask such dumbass questions.”

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