Yeah, she doesn’t want me around.
“Okay, well, I’ll be outside watching the Bobbies versus Rebels game if you want any help.”
She doesn’t say anything, just keeps carefully working to put everything back in place. I shouldn’t feel bad after all the hell I’ve been through, so why doesn’t this feel right?
This was supposed to be redemption for her eating that beautiful steak in front of me last night—while I chewed my charred meat like gum until it felt like I wouldn’t choke while swallowing. But it doesn’t give me the kind of euphoric feeling I was looking for. It makes me feel like a dick.
Sighing, I take a seat on the couch outside, pick up my remote, and flip the TV on . . .
But nothing happens.
Fucking batteries!!!
Well, guess who doesn’t feel bad about the records anymore?
“Anyone throwing a perfect game?” Myla asks as she walks out onto the patio with a blanket in hand.
“No,” I mutter as I sip from my beer.
“Shame. I wouldn’t want to jinx anything.”
I snap my head in her direction and say, “You know damn well you’re the reason Harris didn’t have a perfect game.”
“Yes, Ryot,” she says sarcastically. “It was because of me. The universe heard me utter those words and then rained down its cosmic thunder onto Harris. It has nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t mentally stable enough to throw one last pitch, and he choked.”
“You know damn well Harris never misses on his cutter.”
“I don’t actually, although I probably should. You had your annoying sports cast thing on loud enough this morning.”
“Aw, did I wake you up?” I sarcastically pout.
“You disturbed my orgasm. By the way, thanks for the batteries.”
My nostrils flare as I stare at her. “I’m going to start hiding my remote.”
“That’s fine. Do whatever makes you happy.”
She takes a seat on the couch and crosses her legs. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“This is a neutral space. Therefore, I’m taking a seat.”
“Yeah, well, this TV is not neutral. It’s mine.”
She tilts her head to the side and says, “Aw, how cute. Do you want a Post-it note for it to remind me?”
“No, I just want to remind you that you’re not allowed to watch my TV.”
“I don’t plan on it. I’ve watched enough baseball in my lifetime. I don’t need to watch more. I’m just going to lay out here and scroll through Tik Tok until my eyes are blurry.” She unfolds her blanket, fluffs it into the air and, as it settles over her, the image becomes clearer and causes my entire body to tense up.
“Why the fuck do you have that?” I ask her as I sit tall.
She glances at her blanket and then back at me. “Saw it in the store today, and it looked comfy. Why, do you want to use it?”
“The fuck I do,” I say as I stare down at the Rebels logo plastered all over the blanket. She knows how I feel about the Rebels. In Chicago, you’re either a Bobbie for life or a Rebel at heart. I’m going to tell you right now, I’m a goddamn Bobbie for life. “You know, as a former Bobbies player, that shit doesn’t belong in this household.”
“Well, then”—she snuggles into the blanket—“good thing this household is broken because this is comfy.”
Steam flies out of my ears as I barely, and I mean . . . barely hold it together.
“Are you packing?” I ask as I walk up to Myla’s open bedroom door. She’s sitting on the unmade bed, typing away on her computer.
When she glances up from focusing on the screen, she asks, “Does it look like I’m packing?”
“You realize we leave tomorrow for Napa, right?”
“I’m well aware of your pressing schedule, Ryot.”
“We leave at seven, so unless you plan on waking up early, there isn’t enough time to pack.”
She huffs. “Can you stop yammering? I need to finish this.”
“You need to pack, Myla. It’s past eleven.”
“I’m more than aware what time it is.”
“You’re just doing this to drive me crazy, like last night with the blanket, with the batteries, and with the goddamn pictures. You know I like to be on time and orderly, and the fact that you haven’t packed is just another way to get under my skin.”
“Not everything is about you, Ryot.” She keeps typing.
“Bullshit. You always forget something, always, packing early is what—”
“Ryot, please just shut up so I can finish this.”
“What could possibly be that important right now?”
Her eyes shoot up to mine as she leans her back on her headboard. “What could be so important? Um, how about a paper I’ve been working on for my design class that includes not only my design work of an office lobby but the explanation about why I chose what I chose. Oh, and it’s worth half of my grade and due by midnight. So, yeah, this is a little more important than packing, which if you must know, my bag is in the closet ready to go besides toiletries, which I will stash away in the morning.”
Oh.
Well, fuck, don’t I feel stupid.
Really stupid.
“Myla, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“Just leave, Ryot.”
But I don’t, because I don’t know anything about this class or this paper, or the design that she made for a lobby and that . . . that stings. I feel like I know this woman inside and out. I know why she’s been driving me crazy—she’s trying to push me away. She’s trying to make it easier to walk when I sign the papers. Yet this is the first time in our relationship when it’s clear that I don’t know her at all.
I don’t know the core of her.
These classes.
Her feelings.
How I’ve mishandled her hopes and dreams.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, still standing there in the doorway.
She types away some more, clicks on her mouse, and then exhales as she closes her computer. She must have finished.
“Why didn’t I tell you about my class? We went over this. I did tell you. You just weren’t paying attention.”
“Well, I’m paying attention now.”
“It’s too late,” she says, hopping off the bed and walking toward her bathroom. I follow her as guilt tickles the back of my throat.
“So then tell me again. Tell me the truth about you.”
She sardonically laughs. “The truth will hurt you too much.”
She glances at me through the mirror, her reflection tired and worn down, just like mine. We’ve been at each other’s throats for the past few days, and it’s taken a toll on us. I’m not sure how we’re going to survive Napa. Hell, right now, I can’t see the point. The plan had been to use the three weeks to prompt her to talk to me. But there’s been no communication. Just acts of . . . nastiness. Yes, we used to play around and do pranks like what’s been going on of late. But nothing about my actions or Myla’s has felt like pranks. It’s been malicious. We’re at the end of the rope. She’s stayed quiet, I’ve stayed annoyed, and feelings have been hurt. I don’t even feel like myself anymore. I feel bitter and resent the entire thing. I’ve lost track of the real reason behind what I’m trying to do . . . fix things with my wife. Keep my marriage to the woman who has held my heart for the last seven years.