The Realm of You: A Novel

by Amanda Richardson

  I tug at my short dark-brown hair. It’s choppy and hacked, a horrible execution of a 1996 hairstyle. I immediately mourn my long, wavy hair of yesteryear. I peek back at the closed door and narrow my eyes in the direction of the stranger. He did this. He kidnapped me, drugged me, and chopped off all of my hair. I never would have done this to myself.

  I’m totally naked from the waist down, but there doesn’t seem to be any trauma. I find a pair of baggy grey sweatpants on the floor of the bathroom, so I throw them on. They have a small red, crusty stain near the crotch. The penne. Are these mine or his? I rub my hands on my arms. I feel thinner. There’s not as much flesh around my middle as I’m used to, and the bones on my shoulders are protruding.

  How long have I been here? Is he starving me? Giving me drugs to make me forget everything?

  I look at myself in the mirror again, and my face looks the same, more or less. My cheeks are less chipmunk-y, and my hair gives me a kind of pixie look now that I have cheekbones.

  I look around the bathroom. Everything looks ordinary. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrush, facial moisturizer, face wipes, tampons. I open the medicine cabinet. Typical stuff… Band-Aids, Advil, Nyquil, and an old bottle of painkillers in my name. I pick the orange container up. Marlin Winters… take one tablet twice a day for pain… Exp. 02/08.

  2008? I was twenty in 2008. I was never prescribed painkillers—never in my entire life—not even when I had my wisdom teeth removed at seventeen. The doctor gave me prescription-strength Ibuprofen. I scan the bottle. Percocet, 2.5 mg. I set it back inside the medicine cabinet and continue to look around.

  I throw the plain white plastic shower curtain open and scan the contents of the shower. Suave. I shiver. I touch my hair. No wonder it looks fried—I would never let that chemical-ridden shit touch my hair in my real life.

  My real life. What happened to my real life? What happened to Charlie, and our townhouse? What happened to my job? What happened to me? I turn the light off and sit on the toilet for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins, making my temples throb. I’m in survival mode now, and if I’m going to face my kidnapper, I need to be clear-headed.

  I open the door slowly, tiptoeing towards the corner of the room farthest from me, but closest to him—whoever he is. I spot a tan faux-leather purse sitting on the floor as if someone threw it down haphazardly. I reach inside, searching for a phone. If this is my purse, I can almost guarantee my phone is inside. I’m perpetually running out of battery because of this atrocious habit, much to the chagrin of Charlie, who charges his phone every night religiously. Aha. I feel the cool, sleek metal meet my fingertips, and I smile victoriously. I grab it and walk out of the bedroom.

  The apartment is small, and every inch of it is ugly and basic. Before I get caught, I quickly dial Charlie’s number. He’ll be so happy I’m safe and alive. I look down at the phone—a silver, plain flip phone, ugh—and I wonder if they’ll be able to trace this call. I wonder if he’s with the police right now. It rings four times before he answers, but when he does, my whole body goes limp with relief.

  “Hello?” Charlie mumbles. My eyes catch the time on the old oven in the kitchen. 4:42 a.m. I push aside the irritation I immediately feel that he’s not eagerly awaiting my call, but I suppose the man has to sleep sometime. He’s probably wearied from all the anguish.

  “Charlie!” I whisper frantically. “It’s me!”

  The silence on the other end makes me nervous. What if Charlie is being held captive too? What if something’s happened to him?

  “I’m sorry, who is this?” he whispers, and I audibly gasp.

  “It’s me. Marlin. Listen,” I start, thinking that maybe my voice is a little more hoarse than usual. Poor guy is probably taking calls left and right, from the media, the detectives… “I’m being held captive. I don’t know where I am, but Charlie, he hacked off all of my hair! Are you with the police right now?”

  Again, silence. After a few deadening seconds, he replies, “I’m sorry, I don’t know any Marlins. Is this some kind of prank?”

  My heart rate quickens, and I feel the panic slide down into my stomach. It’s definitely him—his honeyed voice is distinguishable anywhere. “Charlie, it’s Marlin, your girlfriend. Marlin Winters,” I say, my voice raised, desperate, frantic.

  “Marlin Winters? From freshman year of college?”

  “What are you talking about?” I hiss, and I suddenly want to hurl the phone against the wall and watch as it shatters into a million tiny pieces, just to make this conversation stop. “Is this some kind of sick joke? I am your girlfriend,” I urge, my voice breaking into a sob.

  “Marlin, are you okay? Like, mentally, are you okay?”

  His words offend me, but that’s pretty typical. He always speaks before he thinks. It always gets him in trouble, and I’m always apologizing to people for him. But right now, it’s not funny.

  “Charlie,” I snivel. “What is going on?” I slide down against the wall, and I begin to cry. He stays silent on the other end, but I can tell he’s still there because I can hear him breathing.

  “Marlin, look, I don’t know why you’re calling me, or how you even have my number. I haven’t spoken to you in almost a decade. Is there someone you can call, someone who can take you to a hospital?”

  His words are condescending, but I continue anyways, enraged. “I don’t need to go to a hospital, Charlie!” I yell. “I’ve been kidnapped! You’re my boyfriend! I need hel—” Click. “Charlie? Hello?”

  I look down at the phone, and my heart sinks. He hung up on me. I stand up, legs rickety, gripping the wall for support, and I feel sick to my stomach again. I throw the phone onto the carpet and make a beeline for the kitchen sink, where I proceed to vomit up more penne with red sauce. When I’m done, I rinse it away and look around, pulling my arms tight across my chest.

  It’s freezing in here. I look out of the small window above the kitchen sink, and it’s as if my worst nightmares have come true. The ground is covered in a fine layer of snow, and the pine trees outside of the apartment are caked with frost and icicles. My breathing becomes labored, and puffs of white escape my lips as my teeth start to chatter.

  I live in San Clemente. I live in California. It doesn’t snow in Southern California, at least not in the part where I live. I would never live in a place that had carpet, and I would never cut my hair—this I know. My supposed boyfriend has no idea who I am, or rather, that we’re together, and I woke up in a bed with a stranger.

  What the hell am I doing here, and how did I get here?

  “Babe?”

  His voice makes me whimper loudly, and I shut my eyes tightly, again hoping to wake up from this alternate-universe fuckery. Or whatever the hell this is. I don’t open my eyes. Maybe if I pretend he’s not here, he’ll go away.

  “Mar? Are you okay?” he asks, and his kind words dumbfound me. I try not to react as his warm arms encompass me, and I can’t help but start to cry as he rubs my back. “Are you sick, baby?” he coos, and I know I should be kicking him, screaming, trying to get away… but I’m so tired.

  “Who are you, and where am I?” I whisper.

  He chortles, an unfamiliar sound, but certainly not menacing. “You must have a fever. Let’s get you to bed.”

  I open my eyes just as he pulls away, and I continue to stare at him as he leads me back to the mattress on the floor with the cheap sheets. He’s tall and wiry, but he has some muscle in his arms and torso. He looks like a runner. I don’t look at his crotch, even though he’s naked and I know I should sucker-punch him in his nuts right now for kidnapping me.

  He doesn’t seem like a kidnapper, but I suppose they never do.

  He has short brown hair, brown eyes, and a sharp nose. His stubble is overgrown by a few days, and he has multitudes of chest hair. His large lips and almond eyes give him an ethnic look—Hispanic or Latin, maybe? He doesn’t have an accent. Just as he starts to bring me d
own and back into the bed with him, I pull away from him, escaping his grasp. I walk to the corner, cowering.

  “Who are you?” I demand.

  Again, he just laughs. “Hun, you’re sick. You’re burning up. Now come to bed so I can cuddle and take care of you.”

  “Not before you tell me your name and where we are. And,” I add, “why I’m here.”

  He nods, his face serious this time. I’m grateful that he’s already in bed and under the covers, his man parts tucked away. “Fine, I’ll bite. You’re crazy, Marlin.” He sighs. I harrumph, but I gesture for him to continue. He just smiles. “I am Sebastian Juares. We live in Brattleboro, Vermont, and we’re getting married in two months. As for why we’re here, well…” He trails off, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat. Married? Vermont? He cocks his head and tongues his cheek, smiling. “Princess here needed some renovations to be done to our house, so we’re staying in this shithole until we can move in.”

  “Our house?”

  “Wood floors, subway tiles, crown molding galore…”

  I consider his words. I love all of those things. He’s trying to woo me. How the hell did he get me all the way to Vermont in one night? I look down at the ring on my ring finger. I didn’t notice it before, but it’s nice. Vintage, single-stone, filigree… it’s actually really beautiful.

  Exhaustion hits me hard, and when I look up at Sebastian, he’s watching me with gentle concern. He really doesn’t seem like a kidnapper. This is just a dream. All of this is a dream. It has to be.

  “Come to bed, mi amor.”

  With as much reluctance as I can muster, I slowly crawl into bed with him, and I don’t say anything as he drapes an arm around me, pulling me close into his hard chest. Instead, I close my eyes and hope that when I wake up, all of this will have just been the world’s creepiest dream ever.

  Chapter Two

  SIX days ago

  Charlie taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he hums the chorus from We Are The Champions. The rain is pelting down onto the windshield, and his wipers are going nauseatingly fast. I have to look away.

  “Fuck, we forgot the wine, babe,” he says, slamming a hand against his dashboard. It jolts me.

  “I’m sure your parents won’t mind if we show up empty handed,” I reply, giving him a small smile.

  “Do you know my parents at all?” he asks, annoyed. “We have to stop by Bristol Farms.”

  “Okay,” I concede. “Whatever you think.”

  Charlie pulls off of PCH and into the Bristol Farms parking lot. I wait in the car and watch while people struggle with their umbrellas, shaking them aggressively at the door of the store as if the rain is an inconvenience.

  Two minutes later, Charlie is back, cradling a bottle of expensive Pinot Noir.

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t show up empty handed. We’re eating dinner at the country club, for god’s sake.” I pick at my chipped fingernails.

  “You don’t understand,” is all he says, and soon he’s back on PCH going north, towards the Newport Beach Country Club.

  I eye my cropped black slacks, black ballet flats, and white blouse. I feel fancy, but I know the minute I step inside the country club, I will feel totally out of place. I always do. It’s like the people there know my clothes are from Target and not Bloomingdales or Net-A-Porter. Charlie’s mother is the worst, too. The last time I saw her, I was feeling mighty fly in my new J. Crew Tippi sweater, and she had the audacity to tug at a loose thread and ask me if I’d gotten it from the factory store since the color was discontinued.

  Bitch.

  “I wish it wasn’t raining,” Charlie mutters.

  “We’re in a drought,” I counter, continuing to pick at my nails.

  “I know, but still… I wish it would rain in the middle of the night or something. It’s so inconvenient.”

  I roll my eyes. “Inconvenient is being stuck inside your house for five days because there’s a six-foot wall of snow blocking the door from the blizzard.”

  Charlie doesn’t say anything, and I hide my triumphant smirk. Wyoming winters are no joke.

  We pull up to the sprawling country club, where the valet opens my door and holds an umbrella out for me. We’re steered towards the door quickly. This rain… such an inconvenience for everyone. I bite my tongue. My eyes catch the directions pasted on a sign out front.

  Attire and grooming shall not be such so as to offend members or guests. Tasteful cocktail attire is permitted for gentlemen and ladies. Ladies shall refrain from deep plunging necklines, backless dresses, and skirts and dresses more than 4 inches above the knee. The use of cellular phones is permitted only in the parking lot.

  “Is my neckline plunging?” I ask half-sarcastically, and Charlie scowls.

  “You look fine,” he says, placing a hand on my lower back and leading us towards the back—the fancy area. And that’s saying a lot, because the whole place is fancy—as in fahhncy.

  The club is crowded for a Monday night, and we make our way towards Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, who are already seated, napkins in lap.

  “Kids, hello,” Mr. Chapman bellows, standing to hug Charlie and kiss me on the cheek.

  “Hello, Perry,” I say, smiling at Mr. Chapman. “Linda,” I say, nodding towards Charlie’s mother. She doesn’t stand but instead scrutinizes my outfit.

  “Nice to see you, dear,” she says, sipping her wine. I’m sure it’s not her first glass. I study the tautness of her forehead and the way her cheekbones could practically cut stone. Her platinum hair is sleek and smooth, and it looks better on a random Monday night than mine did at prom. She’s wearing a dark-blue long-sleeved wrap dress. Perry is wearing a suit. In fact, I’ve never seen him in anything but a suit.

  “So glad you could make it,” he says, ushering me into a seat next to Charlie. “I hope traffic wasn’t too dreadful,” he says uninterestedly, studying his menu.

  “It was fine,” Charlie answers, and he places the bottle of wine on the table. “We brought wine. I hope the corkage fee isn’t too high here.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Linda says in the kind of cool, casual way that only someone with money could say.

  “Huh,” Mr. Chapman remarks, eyeing the bottle Charlie set in front of him. “The 2013 Sojourn is an interesting choice,” he observes, his tone condescending and critical.

  Ungrateful asshole. That’s a fifty-dollar bottle of wine. I look over at Charlie. His eyes are fixed on the menu, but I see a faint blush spreading on his cheeks.

  “He got it because it happens to be my favorite,” I say, waving my hand.

  “That’s nice,” Linda says. I want to slap the smug, superior look right off of her face.

  “I was thinking of ordering the caviar to start,” Perry says, putting the menu down. “Does everyone here like caviar?”

  “Sounds delightful,” Charlie answers, and I feel him nudge me under the table. He knows I despise caviar—it’s slimy, fishy, and salty. Why it’s a delicacy is beyond me.

  “Yes, wonderful,” I answer airily, and I stifle a giggle when I realize how ridiculous we all sound.

  The waiter walks over, and Perry orders for all of us, much to my displeasure. The conversation is stiff, and Charlie speaks so formally to his parents that my eyes are bugged out half the time in surprise. I can honestly say I have no love for the Chapmans. I don’t even know why Charlie goes to these things. I think it’s to prove a point, like, hey dad, I have a respectable banking job, I just bought a townhouse, and oh yeah, fuck you. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

  “Charlie tells us that you were recently promoted at the studio,” Linda says, turning her eyes on me.

  “Oh, yes. To assistant manager.”

  “Mmm.” That’s all she says. Linda and Perry have made it pretty clear over the years that they don’t approve of Charlie dating a yoga instructor. Or dating me in general, for that matter. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a farm girl from Wyoming or because I’ve never at
tempted to have a relationship with them, but either way, dinners are usually supremely awkward.

  After the caviar is taken away, mostly unfinished (what a waste), Perry sets his arms down on the table and studies us. I brace myself for the question I know he’s going to ask.

  “Now that you guys bought a townhouse together,” Perry starts, emphasizing town, “have you given any more thought to marriage?”

  Charlie is mid-sip, and he chokes on his water. His parents look at him, affronted. Linda starts to fan herself, clearly mortified. As the waiter rushes over and checks that everything is okay (it is), he leaves, and Charlie grips the edge of the table.

  “Dad, like I’ve told you before, when we’re ready, we’ll make that leap. I think Marlin and I are very happy with how things are now.”

  I nod in support of Charlie. It’s true—I have no desire to be married yet. I’m only twenty-seven; Charlie is only twenty-nine. We’re practically infants.

  “You do understand the terms of the trust, don’t you, son?”

  Ahh, the almighty trust. And here I was thinking we could have a nice dinner without bringing up the trust that Charlie is set to inherit once he marries. This is exactly how every dinner with the Chapmans goes—Linda somehow makes me feel inferior about my outfit of choice, Perry orders some sort of pretentious food, and then they bring up money and marriage. Every. Single. Time.

  “I am aware, Father,” Charlie says, nodding. Every time he calls Perry ‘Father’, it reminds me of when Darth Vader says, “Luke, I am your fahhther.”

  “You’re not getting any younger,” Perry retorts, and he gives us both a disapproving look. Suddenly, I snap.

  “I’m inheriting a trust as well,” I say, my voice slightly accented. It comes out before I know what’s happening, and I realize I’ve had way too much to drink on an empty stomach since I did not partake in the cahhviar. I see Charlie tense up beside me, and I give him a small wink. He just shakes his head and brings his hands to his face.

  “Is that so, dear?” Linda asks, instantly perking up. Ha! She thinks I’m more interesting now that I supposedly come from money. “Is that the state with all the cheese?” she once asked me about Wyoming. I had to tell her that she was actually thinking of Wisconsin. Rich and stupid—how formulaic.