Banner: Okay, that got me a little hard.
Penn: Nipples erect.
Nola: Please remove me from this thread.
Chapter Sixteen
MYLA
Six years ago . . .
“Ryot, you don’t have to do this,” I say, turning toward him as we sit in the car outside my parents’ house. “We can go to the lake instead, or possibly go on a food tour. We haven’t done that. It might be fun. Or maybe—”
“Babe, shhhh.” He presses his finger over my lips. “Your dad said he wanted to meet me. Therefore, I’m going to meet him. We’ve been dating for a year, so I think it’s time.”
“I know.” Panic trips around in my chest. “It’s just . . . my mom. She’s, she’s going—”
“I’ll handle her.”
“I know you can, but she’s going to put me down and tell you shitty things about me. She never likes it when I’m happy, and she knows how happy I am with you.” She hasn’t physically hurt me since I fought back when I was a teen. But I’ve learned that her tongue is capable of even more savagery. Especially if I’m happy.
“Then let her be jealous, babe.”
He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Nothing, and I mean nothing, will change my mind on how I feel about you. Okay?”
“Okay.” I let out a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
We both exit the car, and when we meet on the sidewalk, he takes my hand in his. “I’m right here, Myla. The whole time.”
Together, we head up to a house I didn’t grow up in, just a house I’ve visited. There is no room dedicated to me. There aren’t many pictures of me hanging up, nor is there an ounce of my childhood present. It’s just a house. A house with no meaning to me.
I ring the doorbell and clutch Ryot’s hand tightly as we wait for the door to open. From the other side, you hear my mom bellowing to my dad to answer the “goddamn” door while my dad’s heavy feet shuffle along the hardwood floors.
Here we go.
The door unlocks, and he pushes the screen door open before smiling brightly.
Bald with a full white mustache, he’s intimidating with his bushy eyebrows and hard lines on his forehead. Wearing his classic Air Force polo and blue jeans, he hasn’t changed much other than his weathered-looking face. He’s aged.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as he smiles.
“My Myla Bean,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “How are you?”
“Good,” I answer. “I’d like you to meet Ryot, my boyfriend.”
“Well, it’s about time I’ve met someone special in your life.” Dad reaches out and grips Ryot by the shoulder. “You know she’s never brought anyone home before.”
“I guess that makes me special, doesn’t it, Mr. Moore?”
He takes Ryot’s hand and gives him a stiff shake. “Very special. Now come in. Verna has been in the kitchen heating up the place with her chicken and biscuits.”
Dad holds open the door, and we squeeze in. Whispering to Ryot, I say, “Take off your shoes and stack them neatly right there.” I point at the shoe rack my mom is adamant about people using.
He does as he’s told, and then we move into the quaint ranch house. My mom isn’t into decorating, and neither is my dad. They’ve settled for a very minimalistic approach when it comes to their house. It’s one of the reasons I love decorating my own place because I’ve been raised in such bland dwellings.
Two pictures are hanging in the living room, both Air Force-related. The carpet is brown, the furniture is brown, and the walls are a shade of brown. Not a pop of color, not an ounce of joy. Another reason I hate it here.
The only good thing about their house is the giant oak tree in the backyard. It’s where I go to sit when I’ve had too much of my mom. My dad always joins me and tells me that my mom does love me but that she’s just stressed. You know, all the excuses that are supposed to make me feel better, but they never do.
“Verna, they’re here,” Dad calls out. “Ryot, can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m good.” He still clutches my hand. “I can wait until dinner.”
“Myla Bean?” my dad asks.
“I’m fine, thanks, Dad. I can wait too.”
“Well, then, have a seat.” Dad sits in his recliner and then yells again. “Verna, I said they’re here.”
Mom shouts back, the tone of her voice causing me to shudder. “I heard you. I’ll come say hello when I want to.”
I try to awkwardly laugh it off, but it falls flat. Correct me if I’m wrong, but usually parents sprint to the door when their kids come to visit them. They gush and coo and thank the high heavens that their “babies” are visiting again. Not my mom. She’ll say hi when she wants to.
“So how did you two meet?” Dad asks.
Ryot and I discussed this before we came over because we knew my dad would ask the question. Nichole was banging Banner and I refused to leave her alone, so I slept on Ryot’s couch while using his flag as a blanket. That’s how we met, but it doesn’t quite scream the greatest meet-cute in the world. So we decided to go with something else.
“Trivia night,” I answer. “Here in Chicago. Ryot and his brother, Banner, needed two more players on their team, and so did Nichole and I. Worked out.”
“You good at trivia?” Dad asks Ryot.
“Not as good as your daughter, sir. I went into that night thinking I was going to own the scoreboard, but your daughter taught me a thing or two.”
Pridefully, Dad says, “She got that from me.”
“Dinner is ready,” Mom yells from the kitchen, which means everyone has about two seconds to get into the dining room before we all get yelled at for disrespecting her and not showing up to the table quickly enough.
We all pop up from the couch and head into the dining room, where there are four place settings facing each other. Steamed broccoli is piled in a bowl while a bowl of biscuits is on one side, and Mom’s chicken gravy is on the other side. Each place setting has a fork, a knife, a napkin, and a glass of milk. That’s the only drink you get when Mom serves dinner.
And speaking of Mom . . .
She emerges from the kitchen wearing black slacks, a white blouse, and a hardened scowl. Her hair is short and peppered with gray. There are newly formed wrinkles around her lips, most likely from constantly pursing them with disdain.
“Hello,” she says, offering Ryot a nod, not a handshake. “You must be Ryan.”
“Ryot,” he corrects, which only makes her scowl even more. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Moore.”
She scans Ryot up and down and then says, “Wish I could say the same.” She then turns to me and says, “Myla, I see you’re still carrying that extra weight in your thighs. It’s about time you’ve come to visit us.”
Trying not to wither under her stare or her insult, I answer, “Been busy.”
“With that waitressing job, I presume. Still haven’t decided to start a real career yet?”