by Erin Lee
USA Today Bestselling Author
Erin Lee
Table of Contents
Title Page
An Escape from Reality Series Novella
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five | Mary
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Follow Erin Lee at:
Follow Author EL George at:
Erin Lee is the founder of Crazy Ink Publishing:
Erin Lee’s Released & | Upcoming Titles | (Multi-genre because it takes all kinds of crazy.) | Serial Killer/Crime
Psychological/Thriller
Horror/Dark
Escape Reality
YA/Teen/LGBT
Romance/Dark Romance/Paranormal Romance
Social Work/Family
New Adult
Poetry
Abuse/Self Help
Mythology/Fantasy/Other
Anthologies
An Escape from Reality Series Novella
Dedication
For Matty G., who I’d chase through time like Ingrid West or, better, slip into love with like Kate any time. The choice is ours and history? It’s what pushes us toward the end.
Thank you for your ongoing support, love and laughs.
I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.
—Groucho Marx
Chapter One
Mary
‘Beyond the Veil.’ It’s the expression people use for life after death – the mysterious place we linger when we inevitably vacate the earthly world and float off into oblivion or some shit. That’s what it feels like with me and Hudson these days; like the moment we said our vows and left Escape, we began to die a million tiny deaths. What started as ‘true love’ became contempt. We did not know, back then, that hatred has a twisted blade. It returns back to jab at the heart that thrust it. Love does the same. And it’s where we are now – somewhere between a happy ending and the grave. Each day, escaping reality. In many ways, we are no different than Ingrid and Jack; tangled souls in an eternal game of love verses hate. I imagine this curse will chase us through time the same way Ingrid’s bloodlust does hers. But we all have choices too...
I stare at him as he chokes down burnt toast; his eyes darting back and forth to his phone to see if she’s messaged him. In our kitchen, the waiting room for our respective deaths, I can’t fathom where he gets the idea I’m so naive as not to know. Oh, I know. I know all about her the same way I did those who came first. The difference, now, is I just don’t care. Not like I did once. Not anymore. A girl can only have her heart broken so many times before she goes numb.
Clearing my throat only to remind him I’m still here, I turn back to the sink to start the dishes. While Hudson could care less anymore about the flies that collect in the kitchen if we don’t keep the sink clear, I do. We’re different like that. In ten years, I’ve learned there are more differences than not between me and my distant husband. It wasn’t always like this. At least, and probably because we both believed the lies we spewed, back then, there was room for compromise. But our story is no different than most. We’re aware of that too. And as I reach for a new sponge to no avail—Hudson no longer shops in bulk—I don’t bother asking. Tomorrow, I’ll head to the hardware store without him. I won’t ask where he’s been or what he’s done. It’s not like he’d tell me the truth. He, like me, is courting Mistress Death too. He just doesn’t know it. He refuses to listen. We are no different than Ingrid and Jack; in a messed up game with Mistress Death.
That’s what I call her. She is the thing that looms over us. While we could let go, we won’t. We are both too stubborn. And so, she leeks into the home, bed and rare moments we share alone. She is the puppet master to our moods, pulling at our strings and making us dance to different tangos. While Hudson hides from me, I chase; always watching and waiting for something to change. We’ve been locked in her tangled web for as far back as I can remember. Even on our anniversary, a trip we took to Venice, there was a cold silence between us.
I pull eggs from a tired pan as I think back to the gondolier who pulled us under lonely bridges and canals without sidewalks waiting for us to get caught up in something bigger than us. It never happened. We didn’t kiss under each bridge either – not with open mouths. Reaching for a rag to dry the pan off, I want to ask Hudson if he remembers too. I want to know if he’s thought about the carnival or days leading up to it and if he ever regrets our trip to the City of Masks. But what’s the use?
Sighing, I nod at the proverbial Mistress Death as I take my place at the solid maple table next to him. He doesn’t look up. Instead, it’s his turn to cough as if I could have missed that he is here. Local Venice legend was that couples who kissed under every canal bridge would stay together forever. Hudson and me, even on our anniversary, had not kissed once the way we should have. I wonder what Jack and Ingrid would be like in Venice. I should write about that. Regardless, all the signs were there. And, sitting across from him in understood but temporary truce, it’s impossible not to have regret. I know he feels it too. And that’s when our tired dance is interrupted...
His phone vibrates and he jumps to reach for it. I wonder if his panic comes from me or her. Is he worried I’ll ask who she is? Is he that excited to hear from her? Which one is it and which one is she? Which woman has him scrambling on a lazy Saturday morning well before noon over cold eggs, burnt toast and so many things unfinished? That doesn’t matter either, I lie to myself. An ordinary Saturday can just as easily be the one that changes everything. Does he really think I’m so dumb as not to know the true identities of Bob Ringly and Reece Johnson? Please. Often accused of being caught between fiction and reality, I’m at least well-read enough to spot the foreshadowing; write it, even.
At least he gives me the curtesy to send her to voicemail. Clearly, he can’t answer and doesn’t want me listening. Funny thing is, if given the chance, I’m not sure I would. Now, he clears his throat, like a distraction will be enough to throw me off. He doesn’t ask about my writing or the book I’m reading and basing the fan fiction on: Chasing Jack: An Escape from Reality Series novel. Instead, he goes for the mundane – a test only for his best interest: “What are your plans today?”
Why? So you can head out with her? “Not much. We need a few things at the store. Reading. Writing. You know, the usual. You?”
He shrugs. “Stuff to take care of at work.”
“I see.” Through you.
“Breakfast was good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Ingrid saw through Jack too.
With those simple words, my husband just about leaps from the table, clutching the phone in his right hand. In seconds, I hear the bathroom door shut and then, the lock. He’s texting her; making up an excuse for why he didn’t pick up the phone. It shouldn’t be so hard. It’s not like she doesn’t know he’s married. If they were smart, they’d come up with a code.
I finish my eggs and reach for a second coffee before coming up with a plan for how I’ll spend the rest of my day. By early next week, I should have my passport. I could use the time he’s away to hit the hardware store and maybe even the bridal shop. Funerals, no different than the weddings that preface them, are exhausting things to coordinate. It’ll be over soo
n, I remind myself, wondering if she’ll come. I can see it now; Mistress Death grinning over all of us. My husband a cold, regrettable corpse. Women of his past and present crying over what could have been. And me, the widow he pledge to be with until the end, scanning the place for cops...
Chapter Two
Hudson
I can feel her cold, heartless eyes on me. She watches my every move. I’d have to be deaf, dumb, blind and maybe even six feet in the ground to ever escape her. I asked for a divorce once. That went well. My wife of too many years to think about glared at me and reminded me of our ‘sacred’ vows. It won’t be long, I tell myself, heading back through the kitchen to the garage. I grab my briefcase and kiss my wife on the forehead first. It’s a rule in our house – I am not allowed to leave the place without kissing her goodbye. I look at it more like a hall pass. After years and years of fighting her, I don’t argue with the petty shit like ‘always kiss me goodnight.’ It is what it is. And after you’ve been married long enough you come to accept certain things. That’s how it is with Mary and me. At least, how it’s been. Things are about to change. Kate’s getting big and when Mary finds out? Well, if I don’t get out of here soon, I won’t be of the living. She’ll kill me the same way her dumb Ingrid will poor old Jack.
I back, too fast, out the driveway. Two woman livid with me is enough to give me a panic attack. If I pick some roses up for Kate, I can quickly quell that. Mary is another story. Her search history for arsenic, hammers, a passport and a thousand other things has me contemplating getting her another puppy. There’s no way that was research for another of her stupid stories. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s the only way I trust a thing she feeds me. When she feeds it to the dog, Milo, I’m good. When she doesn’t? I tell her I’m not hungry. Too many times lately, I’ve gone to bed with my stomach rumbling. And, if I had more nerve, I’d just confront her on it. But things right now are strained enough. And frankly? If she knew what I’d been up to? Well, I can’t say I don’t deserve it. I am cheating on her. In many ways, I’m a monster no different than her.
It takes twenty minutes to get to Kate’s exit. Trying to remember a local florist, I scan the double lane street of the Eastside business district. Spotting Purple Daisies, not all that different than the old shop back in Escape, I make a quick U-turn to see what I can grab for Kate. It’s not my fault they refuse to schedule ultrasounds on Saturdays. I can’t help her family history and that she needs them weekly either. It’s not like I wouldn’t be perfectly willing to take time off on a weekday.
I try not to think about it. The future looms over me whether I like it or not. If I could get through the divorce gracefully, that would be different. But when your psychotic, delusional spouse has made it clear that they intend to be buried next to you—like it or not—it’s hard to get excited about anything. Daisy. It would be the perfect name. Wonder what Kate will think.
I park the car and quickly shoot off texts to Kate and Barbara my administrative assistant. With Kate, it’s how I’m going to be late. With Barbara, it’s to remind her to forward anything from Mary to the business line. She knows this, of course, but I always feel better reminding her. By now, Barbara’s stopped giving me the evil eye. She’s been around almost as long as my wife. And after the Christmas party six years ago where Mary made a scene over me buying drinks for one of the partners, well, Barbara gets it. She’s the one who told me to change Kate’s contact name to ‘Bob Ringly’ on my phone.
I don’t wait for either to respond. Instead, I run into the store and tell the florist to give me the biggest bouquet she’s got.
“Anything special?”
“Roses. Pink. Or anything, really. Just something nice, I guess.”
She smiles. “How sweet. Special lady?” She looks down at my left hand.
Fuck, forgot the ring. Thanks, lady. That would have gone well. Kate would have freaked the hell out. Casually, I pull my hand to my pocket where I use my thumb to slip the gold wedding band off. I smile before answering her. “Yes. Very.” Don’t forget to leave that in the car, dumbass.
“Anniversary?” she asks, turning toward a tall cooler where two dozen pre-made bouquets sit in waiting. My eyes land on the one with the ribbon that says ‘Rest Peacefully’ and I try not to think about my marriage. Nothing about my impending divorce will be peaceful. It will be more like one of my wanna-be bestseller wife’s horror novels and the gritty, bloody shit she writes about.
“No. Just a Saturday. I just want to do something nice. Can you add baby’s breath?”
“Would this work?” She says, pulling a batch of pink roses from the farthest corner.
“Yes. Perfect. But, again, can you add baby’s breath?”
“Certainly,” she smiles, picking up on it this time and grinning like she’s in on a secret. For a moment, I’m envious of her job.
Thankful she doesn’t ask more, I manage to pay for Kate’s flowers and get back to the car in under ten minutes. She hasn’t responded. She’s probably pissed I didn’t answer her call. Fabulous. Barbara, on the other hand, has assured me she’s “got it” and told me to “go have fun.” Entirely envious of Chuck, my assistant’s husband of forty years, I wonder what it might have been like if Mary hadn’t changed.
She wasn’t always this way. My wife was even fun once. Goal driven and with a mean swing, Mary could golf any of the partner’s pants off. Back then, she was independent too – an entrepreneur with a tiny tattoo that read ‘hustle’ on her hip, she was going places. But since giving up her independent clothing line and burying herself in her silly books, Mary had been bitter. Whatever. Don’t think about it. It was her decision, not yours. She’s the one who decided to throw it all away and turn into Edgar Allen Poe, Jr.
I don’t bother knocking. Kate never locks the door. Instead, with the flowers in my right hand and keys in my left, I barge right into her galley style kitchen.
“Hey babe! Sorry it took so long. Look what I brought.”
“Hudson! Hi! I didn’t think you’d ever show up. You’re never this late on a Saturday.”
Holy shit. Nagging never ends. Not with either of them. “It’s only ten. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.”
“They are gorgeous,” she says, grabbing the flowers from my hand.
“Pink, for this one,” I say, pulling Kate into me and gently rubbing her stomach.
It is never lost on me what Kate is about to do for me. For years, I tried to reason with my wife and ask why the time wasn’t right. But Mary refused. She insisted that if she had a child, I’d love her less. I’d see her stretch marks and scars as ugly, giving me a reason to seek out other women. She’s been convinced I was cheating on her long before Kate – another ridiculous product of her imagination. Something to write about, I guess. In truth, Kate was the first I’d ever been with since Mary and me said ‘I do.’ But my wife would never believe it. No matter how many times I told her. Hell, she’d even accused me of sleeping with Barbara.
“I love them.”
“Baby breaths too.”
“Jesus. She’s a mess,” Kate says, pulling back from me.
My heart flips. “Who?”
“Mary.”
“Oh. Why?”
“How she doesn’t see it. She’s got you and doesn’t even realize how wonderful—”
“Correction. Had. She had me. I’m leaving. I’ll tell you again and again until you finally believe me.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Kate says, slipping out of my grip and moving toward the sink with the flowers.
“You don’t need to put water in. She, the lady at the flower shop, already took care of it.”
“Oh.”
“Just put that baggie of whatever it is in new water in a week. She said it’ll help them stay fresh longer.”
“Well, thank you. They are great. I’ve never had flowers from a real florist before. Normally, it’s the grocery store.”
We have no idea how we’ll spend the d
ay. In reality, and because the town is medium-sized and people talk, we’d do what we usually did. We’d call in for take out and spend the afternoon in bed watching Netflix or head out for Chinese at Kate’s ridiculously cheap favorite restaurant at the other end of town. And in that time, no matter how short it was, I’d feel like I was alive again. By five or six, I’d have to untangle myself from the woman I love and make my way back to Mary; an obligation that was beginning to feel like death in all her glory. No. Don’t think that way. So many things to look forward to. The baby. Kate. A future.
Chapter Three
Mary
I stroll through the hardware store wondering if it would be easier, or less messy anyway, to revert to my original plan. While the idea of using a blunt instrument seems more satisfying, he’s made me watch enough of those stupid criminal investigation shows for me to know that they’ll come looking at me first. Even as a tiny, 5’2 woman, I’ll be suspect. It won’t help that Hudson has a record years and years long of flirting and likely sleeping with other women. While I’ve never overly caught him, he isn’t exactly discreet. Neither is Barbara, his secretary. The bitch couldn’t lie her way out of bubble wrap. Mistress Death could do us all a favor and come for her first.
I consider calling her, just to put him on edge. While he’s probably off having the time of his life with his mistress, Katherine Big Tits, I know him well enough to know he won’t be able to get it up if he thinks I’m on to him. Most times, when I’m sure he’s with her, I blow Barbara up with one emergency after another. I’ve lost count of the pipes I’ve broken or the myriad of other things ‘I need him to fix now’ since his relationship with that twat picked up. That was then. This is now. I’m over it. Today, I need to focus. Wasting my time fighting a battle in a war I’ll inevitably win isn’t worth it. Mistress Death can let him and his shit secretary out of her grips for the afternoon. I have work to do. In the end? She’ll be off of our marriage and calling for him, or, better, his bitch.
