I move to another cabinet, and then another, and another but come up short. Hoping I can find something in the freezer, I whip that open as well, wishing for an ice cream bar of some sort but only find rotten bananas and ice packs.
“What kind of household is this?” Groaning, I go back to the fridge, snag the Tupperware full of grapes—plucked from the vine—and head back into the living room, where I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. I go straight to TBS, knowing there will be sitcom reruns, and to my delight, it’s The Big Bang Theory. “Oh Sheldon, you crazy fuck,” I say as I pop open the grapes and start inhaling them one at a time.
I’m in the middle of poking my straw through the hole in the Capri Sun when the front door opens and shuts. Locks are engaged, shoes are kicked off, and a bag of some sort slams to the floor before a man appears in the living room entryway.
Well, would you look at that? Hello, sir.
Tall, broad with brown hair, a man stands in front of me sporting a pair of baggy sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt. His long fingers twitch at his sides as his sculpted shoulders set back when he realizes he’s not alone. Hiding under a Studmuffins hat is a piercing set of blue eyes that carry confusion as he looks me up and down.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
I toss a grape in my mouth and answer, “A guest to this residence. Who the hell are you?”
“The renter of this residence,” he responds.
“Ah, well . . . it would help guests greatly if you offer them more variety of snacks when they come over. Protein bars and grapes aren’t going to cut it.”
He glances around, clearly looking for any indication of what the hell is going on, and then turns back toward me. “Who are you here with? Banner?”
“Why yes, I am, technically.” I hold my finger up to my mouth and say, “Now, shush. You’re interrupting my show.”
He glances at the TV and then back at me again. “Where the hell is Banner?”
“God, you with the questions.” I roll my eyes. “He’s upstairs with my best friend having sex.”
“And you’re down here, eating grapes and watching a show?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what’s happening. Good job stating the obvious.”
He pulls on the back of his neck and shakes his head. “I don’t have the fucking patience right now to deal with this.”
“Good, then you can leave me to my show.” With another shake, he heads up the stairs when I say, “Uh, dude . . . man, guy.”
“Ryot,” he says.
“What’s that now?”
“My name is Ryot.”
“Oh, that’s an interesting one. Okay then, parents attempting to make you popular straight out of the womb. Anyway, do you happen to have a blanket? There’s a swift breeze coming from the window, and I’d rather not catch a chill while sitting here.”
“No, I don’t,” he answers.
“You don’t have one single blanket?”
“Not for you to use,” he answers again. This time, he starts walking up the stairs.
“Sheesh, what kind of host are you?”
“I’m not. You shouldn’t be here.” And before I can respond, he’s out of earshot.
Well, he’s fucking rude.
It’s not like I asked for a homemade turkey dinner. I’m just looking for an ounce of comfort here.
Comfort I now need to find myself.
I glance around the downstairs and wonder if there’s a blanket in a closet somewhere but realize that if he doesn’t have even a single piece of junk food in the house, he’s not going to have a spare quilt from a kooky aunt just rolled up waiting to be used.
Urgh, that’s annoying.
A chill races up my spine as the air conditioner kicks on. This is not going to do.
I consider slipping my body under the couch cushions, but sure, their countertops might be clean, but who knows what has happened on this couch?
Do I ask for a spare sweatshirt?
Not sure Ryot would be partial to sparing his warm-weather garments, and if I’ve learned anything in the past, never disrupt Nichole while she’s with a man—that’s how I found out she’s so bendy.
Hmm . . . I glance down at the cushion again . . . maybe I could unzip it and slip my body inside?
No.
Nope.
Not going to happen. People fart on couches, so there are farts in these threads and I just won’t do it.
I sigh and lean back on the couch just as my eyes connect with the flag.
Huh.
You know . . .
That quite possibly could work.
I set my grapes and Capri Sun down and stand to examine the flag. It looks to be at least six feet long. A nylon material won’t replace the warm cocoon of a wool sweater, but beggars can’t be choosers.
This will have to do.
I examine how it’s hung up and notice that it’s held on the wall by Velcro as well. What is with these guys? Have they never heard of Command strips?
Either way, I give the flag a solid yank, listen to the sweet sound of Velcro tearing apart from its long-lost lover, and then bundle it up as I bring it to the couch.
Oh yes, I can already tell this was a good choice. I snuggle in close to my Studmuffin flag, grab my Tupperware of grapes and my Capri Sun, and sit back and relax.
There, now this is living.
“Myla . . . Myla, wake up.”
“Two more minutes, Dad,” I murmur into my pillow.
“Myla, it’s Nichole. Wake up.” She shakes my shoulder, startling me out of a haze.
“Huh? What?” I ask, my eyes peeping open to find Nichole standing in front of me, her hair a mess and razor burn peppered along her face. “What’s happening?”
“Time to go, Myla.”
“Go where?” In my sleepy haze, I assess my surroundings. Where the hell am I?
“Home.” Nichole tugs at the fabric wrapped around my body. “What are you doing with this?”
“With what?” I attempt to sit up, but I’m wrapped like a burrito, making it next to impossible. I shift to the left, then to the right, loosening the confines around me. That’s when I notice the lettering, the scratchy fabric . . . and the damp feeling on my stomach. Oh God.
Nichole’s one-night stand.
Feeling cold.
The flag . . .
“Dear Jesus, did I . . . did I wet myself?” I ask.
“What? Myla, please tell me that’s not true.”
Let’s pray it’s not.
“I don’t normally wet myself,” I say as Nichole helps lift me and then unravels me from the flag.
“What are you doing wrapped in this?”
“That Ryot guy wouldn’t give me a blanket.”
“You met Banner’s brother?” Nichole asks as she strips me of the flag, revealing an empty Capri Sun pouch resting on my “wet spot.” Both of us heave a sigh of relief. Well, that is a gift. Peeing faculties are still intact.
“Ryot is Banner’s brother? Wow, they look nothing alike.” I stand, and a few grapes fall to the ground.
“Where the hell were those stashed away?”
“Can’t be sure.” I take the flag from Nichole and bring it over to the wall. “Help me with this. If anything, we are tidy house guests.”