Page 95 of Untying the Knot
“Well, then”—she snuggles into the blanket—“good thing this household is broken because this is comfy.”
Steam flies out of my ears as I barely, and I mean . . . barely hold it together.
* * *
“Are you packing?”I ask as I walk up to Myla’s open bedroom door. She’s sitting on the unmade bed, typing away on her computer.
When she glances up from focusing on the screen, she asks, “Does it look like I’m packing?”
“You realize we leave tomorrow for Napa, right?”
“I’m well aware of your pressing schedule, Ryot.”
“We leave at seven, so unless you plan on waking up early, there isn’t enough time to pack.”
She huffs. “Can you stop yammering? I need to finish this.”
“You need to pack, Myla. It’s past eleven.”
“I’m more than aware what time it is.”
“You’re just doing this to drive me crazy, like last night with the blanket, with the batteries, and with the goddamn pictures. You know I like to be on time and orderly, and the fact that you haven’t packed is just another way to get under my skin.”
“Not everything is about you, Ryot.” She keeps typing.
“Bullshit. You always forget something, always, packing early is what—”
“Ryot, please just shut up so I can finish this.”
“What could possibly be that important right now?”
Her eyes shoot up to mine as she leans her back on her headboard. “What could be so important? Um, how about a paper I’ve been working on for my design class that includes not only my design work of an office lobby but the explanation about why I chose what I chose. Oh, and it’s worth half of my grade and due by midnight. So, yeah, this is a little more important than packing, which if you must know, my bag is in the closet ready to go besides toiletries, which I will stash away in the morning.”
Oh.
Well, fuck, don’t I feel stupid.
Really stupid.
“Myla, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“Just leave, Ryot.”
But I don’t, because I don’t know anything about this class or this paper, or the design that she made for a lobby and that . . . that stings. I feel like I know this woman inside and out. I know why she’s been driving me crazy—she’s trying to push me away. She’s trying to make it easier to walk when I sign the papers. Yet this is the first time in our relationship when it’s clear that I don’t know her at all.
I don’t know the core of her.
These classes.
Her feelings.
How I’ve mishandled her hopes and dreams.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, still standing there in the doorway.
She types away some more, clicks on her mouse, and then exhales as she closes her computer. She must have finished.
“Why didn’t I tell you about my class? We went over this. I did tell you. You just weren’t paying attention.”
