Page 91 of Untying the Knot
She folds her arms at her chest. “Did you, now?”
“Yeah, really upsetting. Anyway, I figured since you listen to your music on blast, I could do the same.”
“Uh-huh, and what’s that you’re making?”
“Why does it matter? I’m not sharing with you.”
“Why would I want to share with you when it smells like you’re burning whatever you’re making?”
“What? No, I’m not.”
“Ryot, I could smell the burn from my bedroom. I had to open the windows.”
“Jesus, you’re dramatic,” I say as I start to get slightly nervous that I am burning something.
I thought that was maybe the char for the reverse sear, or . . . am I doing a sear and cook? I don’t fucking know at this point. I don’t cook often anymore, so I’ve lost my touch.
“And there is no way that’s pesto.”
“Yes, it is,” I defend.
“And your potatoes are overdone. They’re probably shriveled up.”
“What? You can’t even see them.” I move over to the air fryer and open the tray, where I find shriveled-up purple fingerling potatoes.
Son of a bitch.
But as if I’m going to give her the benefit of seeing me make a mistake.
After yesterday and her perfect game stunt, I can’t see anything but red whenever she’s around. I’ve pushed my mistakes to the back of my mind. I’ve pushed the divorce even further back. I’m inHunger Games-type survival mode. I should be figuring out a way to win her back. I should be offering her some of my shriveled potatoes and playing nice, but she’s broken me.
There are at least five crooked picture frames that I can see.
I had to add more batteries to my remote this morning.
When I needed the car for a quick, quick moment to run to the store for more toilet paper—which she has mounds of in her room—she denied me the car. I had to bicycle to the corner store and bicycle back with toilet paper tucked under my arm. Do you understand the sort of catcalls I got from that adventure?
They weren’t pretty!
I’m just trying to get to the wedding, to a point when I can take a deep breath and bring my attention back to what is important—figuring out how to save my marriage. We’ll be on neutral ground, she can’t fuck with me too much, and I can really focus on what it is that she needs from me—if anything.
Until then, I’m a rabid dog, fending for his life out in the wild, teeth snarling, hair sticking up, slightly mangy hindquarters. It’s survival of the fittest, and I will not be torn down.
“How are those potatoes?” she asks, her hip bumped up against the counter.
“Crispy and perfect,” I answer. “Just the way I like them.”
I set the air fryer bin on a trivet and then go to the oven. When I open it up, a plume of smoke erupts, instantly setting off the smoke alarm.
“Told you, you were burning something,” she yells over the ear-piercing beep.
“It’s not burnt,” I yell back as I toss the cast-iron pan on the stove and open all the windows around the kitchen and living room. With a piece of junk mail from the counter, I wave at the smoke, attempting to get it out of the house.
“Try a baking pan,” she says as she hands me one. “That junk mail will do nothing for you.”
I glance at the baking pan and then back at her, and because I’m stubborn and think I can do everything on my own when I’m apparently lost without this woman, I say, “This coupon offering roofing services is working perfectly fine. Thank you.”
It’s not.
