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.”

“Well, I’m paying attention now.”

“It’s too late,” she says, hopping off the bed and walking toward her bathroom. I follow her as guilt tickles the back of my throat.

“So then tell me again. Tell me the truth about you.”

She sardonically laughs. “The truth will hurt you too much.”

She glances at me through the mirror, her reflection tired and worn down, just like mine. We’ve been at each other’s throats for the past few days, and it’s taken a toll on us. I’m not sure how we’re going to survive Napa. Hell, right now, I can’t see the point. The plan had been to use the three weeks to prompt her to talk to me. But there’s been no communication. Just acts of . . . nastiness. Yes, we used to play around and do pranks like what’s been going on of late. But nothing about my actions or Myla’s has felt like pranks. It’s been malicious. We’re at the end of the rope. She’s stayed quiet, I’ve stayed annoyed, and feelings have been hurt. I don’t even feel like myself anymore. I feel bitter and resent the entire thing. I’ve lost track of the real reason behind what I’m trying to do . . . fix things with my wife. Keep my marriage to the woman who has held my heart for the last seven years.