Page 4 of Untying the Knot
Not sureRyotwould be partial to sparing his warm-weather garments, and if I’ve learned anything in the past, never disrupt Nichole while she’s with a man—that’s how I found out she’s so bendy.
Hmm . . . I glance down at the cushion again . . . maybe I could unzip it and slip my body inside?
No.
Nope.
Not going to happen. People fart on couches, so there are farts in these threads and I just won’t do it.
I sigh and lean back on the couch just as my eyes connect with the flag.
Huh.
You know . . .
That quite possibly could work.
I set my grapes and Capri Sun down and stand to examine the flag. It looks to be at least six feet long. A nylon material won’t replace the warm cocoon of a wool sweater, but beggars can’t be choosers.
This will have to do.
I examine how it’s hung up and notice that it’s held on the wall by Velcro as well. What is with these guys? Have they never heard of Command strips?
Either way, I give the flag a solid yank, listen to the sweet sound of Velcro tearing apart from its long-lost lover, and then bundle it up as I bring it to the couch.
Oh yes, I can already tell this was a good choice. I snuggle in close to my Studmuffin flag, grab my Tupperware of grapes and my Capri Sun, and sit back and relax.
There, now this is living.
* * *
“Myla . . . Myla, wake up.”
“Two more minutes, Dad,” I murmur into my pillow.
“Myla, it’s Nichole. Wake up.” She shakes my shoulder, startling me out of a haze.
“Huh? What?” I ask, my eyes peeping open to find Nichole standing in front of me, her hair a mess and razor burn peppered along her face. “What’s happening?”
“Time to go, Myla.”
“Go where?” In my sleepy haze, I assess my surroundings. Where the hell am I?
“Home.” Nichole tugs at the fabric wrapped around my body. “What are you doing with this?”
“With what?” I attempt to sit up, but I’m wrapped like a burrito, making it next to impossible. I shift to the left, then to the right, loosening the confines around me. That’s when I notice the lettering, the scratchy fabric . . . and the damp feeling on my stomach. Oh God.
Nichole’s one-night stand.
Feeling cold.
The flag . . .
“Dear Jesus, did I . . . did I wet myself?” I ask.
“What? Myla, please tell me that’s not true.”
Let’s pray it’s not.
