Page 89 of Untying the Knot
My will is slipping.
She’s fucking good at pushing buttons. I will give her that.
Really fucking good.
“But yeah, I took the batteries this time.”
This time—insert eye roll.
“Why?” I ask. “Just to get on my goddamn nerves?”
“I have better things to do with my life than mess around with you, Ryot. Do you really think I’m going to spend the last three days together in this house before the wedding driving you crazy?”
“Yes,” I shout. “I do. I think you’re trying to drive me so fucking crazy that I want to be done with you after the wedding.”
“I don’t have enough time or energy to focus on petty things.” The lies. I know why she’s doing it. She’s keeping me at an arm’s length by pissing me off, and she’s doing a hell of a job at it.
“Then why the fuck are you taking my batteries?” I hold the remote up in the air, shaking it as if that will help this conversation in any way.
“Because I needed them to masturbate, Ryot, if you need to know. I’ve been burning up batteries a lot lately. So excuse me for delighting in a round of orgasms. Not all of us can just stroke ourselves in the shower.”
Nostrils flared.
Jaw so tight I think I might break a tooth.
And hands ready to rip open a fucking wall, I don’t respond.
There is nothing to respond to.
So I stomp up to my room where I have a Costco-sized pack of batteries. I refill the remote. Walking back down the stairs, I hear the distant moaning of Myla combined with the buzzing sound of her vibrator.
Yup, she’s really trying to break me.
And it’s working.
I walk out on the patio, shut the door so I don’t have to hear her when she comes, and turn on the TV to the Bobbies game. It’s so late that I catch the eighth inning. The score is two to zero, the Bobbies are winning, and . . . holy fuck, Harris is still pitching.
I quickly pull out my phone and search the Bobbies game in my browser to look at the stats. Everything from a few minutes ago is quickly washed away as I glue myself to the television. Harris is . . . *gulp* he’s pitching one hell of a game. Let’s keep it at that.
I pop open my pretzels, too concerned with the game to even consider eating my protein bar, and I start munching, leaning forward on the couch.
History in the making.
Once the Bobbies get out of the inning untouched and head into the bottom of the eighth, I take a sip of my beer, but that’s all I do. I don’t move. I barely breathe because anything I say or do at this moment could jinx Harris. And I will be damned if I’m the one who . . . well, I will be damned, not going to say any more than that.
As the Bobbies step up to the plate, Myla opens the sliding glass door and walks outside with a towel.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask her.
“Going for a swim in the heated pool,” she answers, seeming almost bewildered.
“You can’t be here,” I say. “I need you to leave.”
“What do you mean I can’t be here. This is a neutral zone, Ryot.”
“It’s not that,” I say, my eyes still on the TV. “It’s the game, okay? It’s important. Just go back to your room. It’s almost over.”
“It’s really nice out and I want to take a dip in the pool. I’m not going to go back in the house. I need some fresh air.”
