Page 7 of Devious Delusions

I never will.

But I wasn’t allowed any contact with the outside world the entire time I was there, and I refuse to be chained to a bed again. Not after the last time.

So, I let fake Asher think I believe him. I pretend the weight of the fake rings on my finger isn’t urging me to chop my damn hand off to get it away. He makes it worse as I sit beside him in the car and he twines his fingers through mine, drawing more attention to the rings.

I can almost believe it’s real if it wasn’t for my mind showing me years of memories that he wasn’t part of. There haven’t been any otherknock, knockmessages and part of me wants them back to give me the twisted comfort of knowing I’m right. Even if the reason for them is insidious, it will vindicate me.

The cool Montana summer air blows through the small gap in the window as we drive through a lane lined with trees to a sprawling estate. The house is nestled around the greenery, andthe flat roof makes it blend into the ground from the current vantage point.

It’s not until we get closer that I see an elevated walkway connecting each part of the L-shaped building. One side is open with large windows looking out into the scenery, whereas the other is shrouded by trees and the dark privacy glass reflects the image of the branches back to me.

Slipping my hand free from Asher’s, I ask, “Where are we?”

We roll to a gentle stop, and he smiles as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Home. I had all of our things moved already. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

I follow him out of the car and stare at the house. It’s huge, and I haven’t been around anything other than the bare minimum since I was nineteen. The wealth I grew up around would see everything in front of me as normal. But my brain has been altered so that my new normal of my shitty job and yellow apartment is the opposite of everything my eyes can see. Not just the surroundings, the man too.

Asher doesn’t force me to move. He waits for me to go at my own pace and reminds me of the boy I used to love. Once I’m standing beside him, he places his palm on my back without any pressure and presses his lips to my temple. The comfort he provided me as a child is back and I lean into him. It’s involuntary and my mind tells me not to, but I can’t stop myself when he is the only familiarity I have.

The small amount of ease disappears as we enter the house. Each wall is lined with countless frames like a gallery. The open-plan space doesn’t allow any of them to be hidden and all of them contain a memory that does not belong to me.

Wedding photos. Me in a white dress and a veil blowing in the breeze. Asher standing in front of me. Both of us have matching smiles, unable to tear our eyes away from each other.

Graduation photos of Asher in a cap and gown with his arm around my shoulders.

Everything is there. In print. In front of me.

But it’s not a memory. I’m looking at someone else’s life that I’ve been dropped into. My parents are in them too. So are Asher’s.

He rubs my back and attempts to put me at ease. “It’s my first full day here too. We can get used to everything together.”

Slowly turning my head to face him, I keep my eyes on the images in front of me and give him a small smile. There’s no threat of being sedated anymore and I try to maintain the bullshit that I believe him.

“What about work?” I ask carefully.

I know I work. It’s a pain in the ass and my hair always smells of grease and smoke when I finish a shift at the diner.

There’s no answer as he guides me through the house, pointing out the different rooms. The kitchen is huge, a large island in the middle, and the corner of the room is constructed of floor-to-ceiling windows, providing an unobstructed view of the acreage with the mountains in the distance.

“You don’t have to worry about work. Or money,” he says as we take the stairs. “You never really wanted to work for someone else, and you have all the time you need to perfect your compositions or paintings. The creative therapy is good for you too. It helps ground you.”

The gallery of photos doesn’t stop. They follow us up and give me a migraine. Each image assaults my senses. It’s like being transported into a movie where all the characters are people I know but I haven’t read the script. The years are changing, and my parents are slowly distanced from my life. I nearly laugh out loud because I haven’t spoken to them since I was twenty-one, so at least them not being anywhere in my life makes sense.

I’m finally allowed a reprieve from the images as blank walls greet me on the way to the bedrooms. The hallway is filled with light from all the windows, and I pause, staring out at the tree line. The higher vantage makes it a blanket of green with the trees so close together.

I’m disturbed from staring at the calming view as fingers curl around my hip and warmth engulfs my back. Asher leaves an inch of space between us. But his hand is on me. His left hand, which has a wedding band on his finger.

Lifting my hand, I look at the two rings on my corresponding finger. The band is new, but I recognize the engagement ring without the photos of it being on another person’s hand.

His lips brush my cheek as he voices the memory. “It’s my mom’s. She always said it would be yours.”

I nod and audibly swallow. That memory is real. He knows it too. Dora always said that her engagement band would go to the eldest child. That pissed Kane off the most because it made him invisible. I miss him all over again, and it’s different knowing he’s dead.

My vision turns hazy as I watch the sun glittering off the diamonds. A hot, guilt-filled tear slips over my lashes and hits my knuckle. Asher wraps both arms around me and rests his chin on my crown as I continue crying. I can’t even stop the tears when I hate crying in front of Asher or allowing anyone to know just how broken I am. It doesn’t matter because there’s no tape that can repair the cracks and I can’t lie to myself with my own aging face staring back at me.

I don’t even know why I’m crying other than the overwhelming reality that I’ve made up a false world. My mourning is in part for a man I’ve lost for good and the years of my life I’ve made up. He lifts me off my feet and cradles me to his chest. The scent helps me as I wrap my limbs around him. He’saged, but the smell is the same, and without looking at him I can pretend I’m seventeen again.

Stroking down my back, he kisses my jaw and speaks softly. “It’s okay, baby. Just take your time.”

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