Page 120 of Untying the Knot
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?”
“Why don’t we all sit down and eat?” Dad suggests, breaking up the tension.
Thankfully, Mom listens, and she rounds the table to Dad’s side.
Yup, no hug.
Nogood to see you.
Just judgment about my weight, my career, and never visiting.
I wonder why?
Ryot pulls out my chair and helps me scoot in before he takes a seat. The minute he’s settled, his hand falls to my thigh, and he doesn’t move it once.
“So Ryot, you play for a baseball team?” Dad asks.
“Yes, sir. The Chicago Bobbies.”
“We don’t watch baseball in this house,” Mom says while she divvies up everyone’s allotted serving of food. I’ve warned Ryot that whatever she gives you, you eat.
Of course, Dad and Ryot get normal portions, whereas I get half as much. According to my mom, my thighs are too large, my arms are too fat, and she’s shocked I can fit my ass into my jeans.
“Shame,” Ryot says. “It’s a great sport.”
“Ryot is the starting third baseman,” I chime in for God knows what reason.
“I see.” Mom plops three pieces of broccoli on my plate. “So you have a steady income then?”
Here we go.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryot answers.
“Is that why you’re with him?” Mom asks me. “Because of his paycheck?”
“No,” I answer. “I don’t even know how much he makes.”
“You’re not that dumb, Myla. He’s a professional athlete, a starter, no less. He’s making more than you would ever see in a lifetime serving lemonades to people.”
Clearing his throat, Dad says, “Have you done something different with your hair, Myla?”
I glance over at my mom and feel Ryot squeeze my leg, reminding me not to let her get to me. “Just curling it a lot lately.”
“It looks nice.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Better than the time she thought she looked good with bangs.” Mom picks up some chicken on her fork. “I was so embarrassed having her walk by my side with those things.”
