Kicking Reality

“Emmy,” he calls softly, gripping onto me tight.

Squirming my way out of his grip, I muster every ounce of strength in my body and swim away as fast as I can, desperate to escape what just happened.

The water becomes shallow, until my entire body is out and I run away, completely soaked with water and one other thing.

Guilt.

“Reality is a cold hard bitch.”

~ Emerson Chase

Bang bang.

Thump thump.

The vocals are loud; piercing my ear drums while my eyes stare directly at the ceiling. The sun is peeking through the blinds, reminding me of another beautiful spring day. With summer just around the corner, the air had become warmer removing that morning chill.

It is particularly warm this morning, my large bed socks becoming overbearingly hot. That, coupled with the constant pain in my head, leaves me frustrated and increasingly hostile.

After all these years, Dad hadn’t changed one bit. He prided himself on being an early bird—the kinda person that woke up at five AM and had done more in the first two hours than I could achieve in one whole day. When we were kids, he would blast the music through the house at six AM forcing all of us up.

Today is no different.

Mom used to complain, being a night owl like me. Yet years of being married—to the most stubborn man ever—had her changing her ways. She hated to admit it, but only told me that she got more writing done first thing in the morning than she did at night.

I had to admit that I did change over the years, finding myself waking up early to get a run in or hang out at the local coffee shop before the swarms of paparazzi found me. Great when you’re on the West Coast. The East Coast time difference totally kicked my butt.

I loved Bon Jovi. I aced Livin’ On A Prayer at pub crawls back in the college years. I just didn’t enjoy it when I was nursing the biggest hangover ever.

Turning my body sideways, I snuggle into my side glancing at the pile of clothes I left on my bathroom floor. Wet clothes. From the lake. The lake where Logan . . .

Don’t say it!

You had forgotten all about it.

Okay, I’m calling bullshit on myself. You hadn’t forgotten about it. You slept. You slept because you cried yourself to sleep because life is fucked up and you had no clue what the hell happened last night.

Wesley Rich cheated on your gullible ass—that’s what happened.

And, you hated yourself for enjoying what Logan did to you.

The soft pillow is perfect to bury my face into and try to block out the images that haunt me as last night replays in my mind.

I was angry—livid. To the point that nothing made sense. One would assume that my state of mind was bordering insanity and I was one step away from swatting the imaginary flies away from my face.

Thinking about the moment I saw the image of Wesley, how terribly sick to the stomach I felt, and how all I could think about was every promise we made to each other and how easily he had forgotten.

I bite on the pillow and let out a frustrated scream, knowing that no one in the house would hear me with the loud music playing. The second I do, I regret it instantly as the sharp pain ricochets straight to my temple causing me to wince and let out a muffled cry.

I begin to open my eyes again, forced to face reality. My cell sits beside my night stand, dead and unable to turn on. Your own fault.

Leaning over the side of the bed with great difficulty, I remove my iPad from my bag. Dragging it up and into my lap, I shuffle into a sitting position and tap on my inbox, reading an email sent from Nina.

Emerson,

I know you’re angry and not taking any calls. You know I don’t like to take sides, I work for both you and Wesley.

But he’s an idiot.