Page 119 of Untying the Knot
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 hiwhen 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 . . .
