Page 99 of Escaping Our Reality

Oh no, am I about to have another panic attack? Like the night on the cruise when Carrie went missing? Please, no. I rub my sternum, checking for a heartbeat.

Before I realize it, I’m standing in the middle of my living room in my wing of the house. Far away from everyone else. Is that Ry talking to me?

I blink several times, trying to focus. Ry grabs both sides of my face. Bending close, he forces me to look into his eyes. His voice is firm. A constant calm in my storm. “Tell me what you want.”

“I wanna go home. Take me home.”

Scooping me into his arms, his hand grazes my bare ass. Loading me in the car, he drives me home.

Taking me from the mansion to our tent in the woods.

With him.

He’s my home.

Chapter 40

ELLA

April showers.

There is no such thing in Alabama. There’s only April tornados.

And that’s what’s in the forecast for today.

School dismissed at noon in anticipation of the impending storm. Everyone hoped the outlook would improve as the day went on, but no such luck. Ry texted this morning to say his Wednesday classes at the community college had already been canceled for the day as well. The second I jumped in my car I tried calling him.

No answer.

Then I tried the garage.

No answer.

I texted.

No answer.

For fifteen minutes I sat in my car, waiting on a return phone call, as everyone deserted the school parking lot. I quickly tired of the worry and dread filling my stomach.

That’s why I’m currently driving across the county, racing against the weather, as the weatherman keeps repeating a real-time play by play, as the bad storm treks from Mississippi to Alabama. The wind whips, forcing me to grip the steering wheel with both hands. Dark clouds cover the sky, swirling like the brew in a witch’s cauldron. I slam the car into park the second I pull into the parking lot at the body shop. The chain link gate is pulled closed and deadbolted. I know the garage is closed,all lights are out, but I still scream out for Harlan and Ry. I’m silently praying that Ry isn’t in the woods trying to ride this out.

Climbing back into the SUV, I drive like a somewhat cautious maniac to the homestead. Aunt Teresa calls to make sure I’m coming over to their house. When I tell her that I’m getting Ry and heading back home to the storm shelter in the Big House, the worry in her voice does nothing to calm me. She’s not one bit happy that I drove out here. Especially considering it puts me closer to the storm, closer to danger. The bad weather will hit the garage and homestead first before making its way to town. I hear Uncle Ray screaming on the other side on the phone. But what choice did I have?

Relief floods through me when I see Ry’s truck, sitting in its normal spot, tailgate pointed at the campsite, just like normal. Except this isn’tjust like normal. The tent, with our blow-up mattress inside, is no longer in its normal spot. I look over at the truck bed, and I see the blue fabric neatly folded. Some of the chairs are in the back too—the ones that fold, at least. Ry is bent over one of the large storage bins. It looks like he’s securing it to a tree. I’ve never paid attention to it before, but all of the storage bins back up against trees.

I jump out of the car and race to help him. The temperature has risen in just the past few minutes, casting a muggy heat over the earth, instantly making my skin sticky. Large drops of rain sprinkle from the sky, painting my shirt in a tie-dye look. The wind whips my hair in my mouth. I grab a hair tie from my wrist and wrangle it as I race to his side. “Ry!”

He has a pile of ratchet straps dangling over his shoulder, and he’s still bent over, strapping one of the storage bins to the tree behind it. His eyes grow wide. He was so concentrated, so focused, he didn’t even hear me pull up. You can tell he’s torn. Torn between the urge to take a break and wrap me in his armsversus the urge to secure all of his possessions in place, trying his best to protect everything he owns from the storm.

In the end, practicality wins over emotion.

Tightening the strap, he yells over his shoulder. “Lulu, what the hell are you doing here? A storm is coming.”

“You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried.”

Finishing with the bin, he stands up, wrapping me in his arms. “I’m sorry, it’s in my truck.” He pulls back and studies me. A large raindrop runs down his cheek. “Are you okay? I can’t believe you drove out here. It’s supposed to be bad. What were you thinking?”

The wind picks up and I have to raise my voice. “I was thinking of you. No one is at the shop. Where’s Harlan?”

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