Kicking Reality

“He’s gay, is that it?” I joke.

“Your brother gay? The tabloids have a fascination with his love life which all involve women. I don’t know how I raised a man-whore child.”

I laugh softly. “Because it’s in your blood. You write romance novels, Mom. You’re a New York Times bestseller. Even when you’re not writing, you’re sending out this romantic vibe to everyone around you.”

“Romance is one thing, kid, your brother is another,” she chuckles. “So, can you fly back tomorrow?”

My parents live on the east coast, in a small town just outside of Connecticut with my younger sister Tayla. As much as I miss being home and the quiet life, flying out is always a hassle. Over the past year, paparazzi had a fascination with my movements and followed me wherever I went. A reason why I reduced the trips back home.

“I guess I can swing it. We’re not filming till next week and Wes is flying to Amsterdam for a photoshoot tonight.”

“Great! I’ll get Daddy to pick you up at the airport. I miss you kid, it’s been too long.”

“I know Mom.” I sigh, hanging up the phone after saying goodbye.

You would think that being a twenty-six-year-old woman would have my big-girl panties permanently on but on occasions like this, when something seemed off and not right, I missed my mom a lot. Living across the country might as well have been across the ocean. We had a relationship that most people envied; I would easily call her my best friend. We texted several times a day, anything and everything she knew about my life. I respected her opinion, and we rarely argued about anything unless it was who would win The Batchelor.

Growing up with a mother that wrote romance had its ups and downs. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mom was one of the biggest romance writers in the world. Her books had been translated in every possible language and she was often doing signings across the globe.

My first memory of her leaving us for the weekend was when I was five. I cried because Dad was a shitty cook and I didn’t want anyone to cook besides her. Self-centered and a brat.

As I grew older, I became fascinated with her career and began reading her books in my teens. The only thing I skim past: the sex scenes. Mom is a great writer but some things are best left a mystery. People often asked her, “Where do you get your inspiration from?” and “I bet you live an exciting life.” Sure, Mom and Dad loved each other but Dad would always be the beer-drinking, nut-eating dad that yelled at the TV when his team let him down. A sports fanatic who had very little time for romance. At least, that was my observation.

I make my way slowly back to the interview room to find Wes waiting for me. Something is amiss; his normally styled hair looks like he has just run a marathon, sweaty and stuck to his forehead. He’s quick to shove his cell back in his pocket, focusing his attention on me.

“Em, we have to go. My flight leaves tonight and I’m not packed.”

“Yeah, okay,” I respond while he reaches out for my hand. “Mom called me. She wants me to fly home for the weekend.”

“To Connecticut?”

“No, to the moon. Yes to Connecticut. Something about my brother being in town with a surprise.”

“I don’t like you going alone.”

“Well I don’t like you going alone to Amsterdam but you insisted,” I argue back.

He squeezes my hand tighter, plastering a fake smile knowing all eyes would be on us when we leave the room. Not saying another word, we scurry past the few fans lined up and climb into the car. We buckle our seat belts in unison as he starts the engine quickly, checking the rear-view mirror before speeding off.

“There’s just so much I need to do for the photoshoot, Em. I didn’t work out yesterday or today because of all these interviews. I’m just not in my best shape.”

I am not buying the excuse, and instead remain tight-lipped avoiding another argument. All we seemed to do lately is argue. I was fed up with his unorganized trips and for some reason, he became more possessive over our relationship which frustrated me. We had a few fights on camera which the both of us were forced to reconcile and put on a united front. I don’t know what it was about us, but pinned it down to the fact that we were engaged and now sitting on top of our shoulders is a wedding which the network executives are eager to pay for knowing it is their gold mine.

“Listen.” He parks the car in the garage of our apartment block, resting his arm on the back of my chair. “I know things have been tense between us but it’ll all die down soon. Maybe we need a trip away? A quick romantic getaway where I can fuck you all weekend long.”

I smile softly. “You’re a jerk. That’s the problem. Less jerk, more fucking.”

Burying his face in my neck, he runs his tongue along my skin as I close my eyes. The sound of the leather seat squeaks when he shifts closer to me. I missed him already and wished he would beg me to come on this trip. Throw all caution to the wind and be spontaneous.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “Remember that.”

Here we go again. I humor him, just to rile some sort of reaction.

“I’ll try to remember that and to let my other boyfriend know,” I chuckle.

His smirk fades, brows furrowing. “You know I don’t like that joke. There’s a million guys lining up for you.”

“Name one?”