I close the dryer door with my clothes still inside and return to my chair. I stare at the laundry room door.
“I’m sorry, clothes,” I whisper. “I’m sorry you’re going to sit there all warm and unfolded and you’ll all get wrinkly as you cool down, and I’m not there to fold you and put you where you belong.”
I start reading my book. Well, I try. I really can’t handle not folding clothes, but sooner or later, Beck is going to come out and want to switch his clothes and he won’t be able to. Annoying, right?
Ten excruciating minutes later—yes, I watched the clock—he comes out.
“Dryer all ready?”
“Oh, no, I’ll fold my stuff later. I’m reading.”
Silence.
I don’t even have to pretend to hold back a laugh. I’m disgusted too.
Beck walks over to the dryer without a word and starts to fold my clothes.
I let him too.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
Letting him fold my laundry wasn’t on the list of things I could do to annoy him, but it is now. Even if I’m concentrating on all the shirts and socks he’s folding the wrong way.
I pull out my phone and tap the notes app where I made my Drive Beck Bonkers plan.
I quickly type in this new addition and scan the list:
Gargle mouthwash.
Only cook dinner for one.
Use annoying nickname.
Burp in front of him.
Call or text him constantly.
Be messy.
Wear baggy or unattractive clothes. Figure out his type and do the opposite.
Become a plant lady?
Bring his car home on empty.
As I try to determine the best one to do next, I pull up a group text with Willa and Greer.
Calla: He’s folding my clothes.
Willa: What a gentleman!
Calla: No, I left them on purpose so he couldn’t do his laundry, and instead he’s doing mine for me.
Greer: So you’re upset your husband is helping with household chores.
Calla: He’s not my husband.
Willa: Legally, he is.
