“What’s that?” I ask, holding up my spatula to my ear—making homemade pesto sauce while my potatoes crisp in the air fryer and my steak reverse sears in the oven. “I can’t hear you.”

“Because your stupid sports show is too loud,” she shouts and then picks up my phone and puts it on pause. “Jesus, Ryot. Where are your headphones?”

“Misplaced them.” I smile at her.

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 in Hunger 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.