Finding Our Reality (The Reality Duet #2)

Chapter 27

ELLA

Ow.

My head hurts. My body hurts. Even my teeth hurt.

I quickly—and painfully—remember why I don’t actually drink. From now on, I’ll stick with just carrying the drink around with me. Rolling over, I sink into the plush mattress. Sniffing the pillow, Ry’s scent fills my nose.

And the scent of lavender.

Lavender sheet spray?

So… I’m at his place.

I can’t remember exactly what all happened last night, but I remember enough to know that I’m not proud of my behavior. And I remember enough to know that Ry has a child. Rubbing my breastbone, I try to ease the heartache consuming my hungover body.

Slowly, I open my eyes. The blinds are drawn tight, but the small amount of sunlight that breaks through lets me know it’s midday. Once my head stops spinning, I sit up and glance around the room, taking in my surroundings. King-size bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a plush wingback chair and ottoman. My blouse and skirt from the night before are draped across the back of the chair. Looking down, I rub my hands across the blue Harlan’s T-shirt covering my body. I don’t remember changing clothes last night, so I can only assume Ry changed them for me.

Despite the curdled feeling in my stomach, this room makes me smile. Color is everywhere. Cherry-colored wood furniture with reds, browns, creams, taupes, blues, grays, and golds. It’s the complete and total opposite of the room I grew up in—the room I live in now. It does, however, remind me of my own bedroom at my house on the coast. The room I specifically decorated to carry no resemblance to the room—and the wing of the house—that my mother made for me.

Something on the nightstand catches my attention. Rolling over, I see a plate with two pieces of dry toast, a large sports drink, and a bottle of over-the-counter pain relievers. I pick up a torn piece of paper, eagerly reading his words.

Take 3 pills. Eat both pieces of toast. Drink the whole bottle.

Shower. A fresh toothbrush and towel are on the counter. (Hangover stink is the worst.)

Whatever you do, don’t go back to sleep after you wake up.

Come find me.

Taking his advice, I slowly climb out of bed when finished eating. Running my hands across my clothes from yesterday, I find them damp. Well, that can’t be a good sign.

Peeking through the blinds, I’m rendered speechless. Completely and totally speechless. Clambering for the string, I yank the blind open, pulling so hard, the faux wood slaps against the window frame.

The pond.

His pond.

Our pond.

There’s no mistaking it. Some of the trees have been cut, showcasing a bright green, manicured lawn. The small wooden dock has been rebuilt; it’s longer, stronger, sturdier. The concrete pad is still there, but the furniture surrounding the fancy firepit all matches now. No mismatched pieces of junk. Despite all the changes, there’s no question in my mind.

I’m at the homestead.

I can’t believe I never asked him where he lives. We’ve worked side by side all these months, and I never asked him where he lives. It never even occurred to me that he would live here. In a house. In what feels like a very big house, as a matter of fact. I just filed the homestead away in a closed and locked cabinet. A figment of my past, a figment of the happy time before Ry left me. Before his reality pulled him away.

I stare out the window for so long, my eyes actually start to water from the bright sun. With a shaky hand, I close the blind and head into the bathroom. I can’t help but laugh when I flip on the light. Ry always said that one day he would have the largest shower known to mankind, and I think his goal has been achieved. The bathroom is massive for just one person, and I realize that I’m na?ve to think no one has ever lived here with him before. He has a child. There’s a very good possibility he and his ex-girlfriend shared this bathroom at some point.

A new green toothbrush and a plush gray towel sit in the middle of the double vanity. The marbled counter is a swirl of grays, browns, creams, and blues. The gray and cream tiled shower looks like it belongs in my parents’ mansion and not here, in the very place where I slept in a tent and brushed my teeth with water from gallon jugs.

I take my time showering, using his soap, shampoo, and conditioner. His scent overwhelms me. It fills the empty cavern of my soul. Pretending I don’t know what I know, I sit on the shower bench and let my fingers roam over my body. Touching myself, I dream of Ry… the Ry I used to know, the Ry I know now.

Well, the one I knew before yesterday afternoon. Before I found out he’s a father.

The moment I set foot outside this room, my life will change forever. He’ll tell me about having a child. He’ll tell me about how he met the girl’s mother. How he made love to her, how he watched her give birth, how he promised her they would always be a family.

Knowing all of this, I do the only thing I can think of doing. Removing the shower head from its perch, I let the water pour over my engorged clit. My eyes squint closed so hard, they hurt. Imagining his body sliding in and out of mine, his baby growing inside of me, I come all over his expensive shower tile.

And I don’t even bother to rinse my juices down the drain.

When I leave, I want to leave a part of me behind.

As soon as I’m clean, I slip back into my bra and panties and T-shirt. My clothes are still damp, so I unabashedly pilfer through his dresser. The second drawer I open holds his underwear. I tug a pair of black boxer briefs over my panties. Quickly making his bed, I grab my dress clothes and tiptoe out of the bedroom. I’m on the second floor of the home so I would assume Ry is downstairs or outside.

Turns out, the upstairs has four bedrooms—the master and three others. One bedroom is basically empty. One bedroom has a modest double-size bed and a dresser; a guest room, I’m guessing. The other bedroom is fit for a little princess. Decorated in pink and white and silver, there’s a canopy queen-size bed, a bookshelf filled with dozens of books, and a dollhouse filled with miniature furniture and a miniature little family.

I check my pulse, making sure I’m still alive because seeing this almost stops my heart.

Walking down the steps, an uneasy feeling pools low in my stomach, like I’m forgetting something. Like something not’s quite right. Anxiety gnaws at my brain, even worse than the hangover headache. Like a zombie, I walk from room to room. Open floorplan. Living room. Half bath. Ry’s office. A large rec room with a connected full bathroom. Laundry room. Mud room. And a huge kitchen with oversized appliances and an island running nearly the entire length.

He built our house.

Ry built our house.

The one I designed all those years ago.

Tossing my clothes on the kitchen table, I stumble to the five-gallon water jug in the corner and fill up a glass of water. I down two glasses before the thick cotton strangling my throat starts to dissolve.

Why didn’t he say anything?

Why didn’t I ask?

The hardwood floors creak underneath my bare feet. The heavy wooden front door stands wide open, and a glass storm door is my only protection from what waits for me on the outside. Hanging on the wall, framed and preserved, are my sketches of the house. I don’t even remember him taking those. I also can’t believe he saved them.

I drag my fingers through my damp hair, pushing the waves from my face. I don’t even know if I have the strength to take a step out onto the front porch. All I want to do is collapse. Go back in time—twelve years, to be exact—and live the life I was meant to live. Here, with him.

But then I remember who I am. Holding my head high, I open the door.

The slats of the front porch are polished smooth and painted white. Right next to the door is a pair of black rubber rain boots. Slipping my feet into them, they slap loudly against the floor and knock back and forth against my shins as I walk.

They obviously belong to Ry; they’re huge.

Holding onto the rail so I don’t face plant, I clamber down the stairs and race into the yard. Turning around, I shield my eyes against the glare of the sun and take a good long look at my house.

White siding. Green shutters. Stone veneer. Wraparound porch. Rocking chairs. Porch swing. Huge dining table. The connected garage is to the left. Farther to the left is a separate building. It looks like another garage. Workshop, maybe? I stare at the house until my body aches from being in the same position. When I finally turn back toward the pond, I see Ry standing there, watching me.

He’s on the dock. And he’s not alone. Patting the little girl on the shoulder, he says something to her. She nods, but is otherwise completely engrossed in casting her rod and reel.

In a foggy haze, I somehow find enough coordination to put one foot in front of the other. We meet mid-way, on the concrete patio, next to the firepit. The place we always talked, the place we watched documentary after documentary on my computer, the hub of our homestead for all those wonderful months.

And if my brain fog wasn’t thick enough between the lingering effects of the Long Island Iced Teas and the knowledge that my former lover built me a house, Ry adds more confusion to the pot by not wearing a shirt. Sweat glistens on every single inch of his deliciously sculpted body. His cargo shorts hang low at the waist. My mouth waters involuntarily when his hands land on his hips, showcasing the firm cut of his pelvic muscles and the band of his boxer briefs that match the ones I’m wearing. His tennis shoes are covered in mud from the edge of the pond. A baseball cap shades his face from view.

“Damn, Lulu. I expected many things from you today, but seeing you in my clothes was not one of them.” I look down at the boxer briefs I’m wearing like shorts and the rain boots. He chuckles, low and heady. “You’re fucking torturing me.” Unashamed, he grabs his crotch and quickly adjusts the growing erection in his shorts.

I try not to blush. Really, I do. But it’s hard not to when I know exactly what those cargo shorts are hiding. I quickly reach behind my neck and rub my scar. “You’re the one without a shirt on.”

He lifts the ballcap from his head and turns it around, giving me a chance to study his face. When his arms raise, my fingers twitch to touch the contours of his ribs.

He licks his lips. “Maybe a part of me wanted to play our game. What would you think of that?”

I toss a hand at the house. “Is that what this was, Ry? A game?”

His jaw clenches. “You have to be more specific. Are you talking about the house itself? Or the fact that I brought you here? Because it should be pretty self-explanatory why I brought you here. You were drunk off your ass and getting yourself into trouble by pretending to go home with a strange man.”

I lower my head in shame. Then, I remember who I am and why I’m mad and hold my head high once again. “I apologize for the trouble I put you through. Thank you for your hospitality, but I should give you some alone time with your daughter. I don’t want to intrude. I’ll call Holt or Raylee for a ride. I saw my purse and cell phone in the kitchen.”

I turn around but don’t make it far before his arm grabs my waist, spinning me around and pinning me to his side. The movement makes my head swim, and a quick fire of nausea flames in my stomach. Ughh. Hangover.

“There’s someone I want you to meet.” He lifts his hand in the air and whistles, drawing the little’s girl’s attention. He yells to her, “Laura, come here!”

I push against his sweaty and massive frame. The salty smell of his body makes it hard to think. “Ry, I don’t think this is the best time to—”

He interrupts me, completely ignoring my protest. “I’ve told her a million times that she needs to wait until dusk to go fishing, but she insists that the fish want lunch, just like people.”

I’ve never seen him look at someone with such innocent and pure love. Not me. Not anyone. And it breaks my heart into a million pieces, imagining what could have been.

She skips up to us in a bundle of energy. Her brown hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing a purple shirt with small white flowers on it. She’s pretty. She doesn’t really look like Ry, but she’s pretty. And that’s when I see it. Her head turns up and she pushes the small pair of glasses up on her nose.

Her eyes. The same translucent green as Ry’s. The exact same. And just as gorgeous.

“Laura, this is Lulu.”

Her little hand sticks up in my face, waiting on an introduction. “Hello, my name is Laura Margaret Crutchfield. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

He has a child. He made a baby. With someone else. And he gave that child my middle name.

What the hell is this guy doing to me?

I stand there, frozen like a statue, unable to flap one single syllable out of my stupid mouth.

Finally, she grunts. “Are you okay?” She flips her hand over and looks at it. “It’s just a little dirt. Uncle Ry says that a confident, mature woman always introduces herself with a firm handshake.”

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I shake my head and quickly wrap my hand around hers. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I just—”

Wait. What did she just say?

“Wait. What did you just say?”

Ry’s hand snakes around my back. His fingers massage against my hip. Bending, he brushes his lips against my cheek. “Lulu, I’d like you to meet Laura. My niece.”