Page 24 of Strike Zone

I stand up and place my hands on his chest. His eyes focus on where we’re connected. The tips of my fingers buzz like I’m touching a live wire. I ignore it. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“Fine. If it will make you feel better.” Wyatt backs away, leaving my hands hanging mid-air for a moment. He collects all the laundry he dropped moments ago and throws it back on the bed.

I eye the clothes in front of me and start mentally sorting everything into categories. “Do you fold your shirts?”

He looks at me like I have two heads. “You could call it that.” Wyatt grabs a shirt off the bed and walks over to his dresser. With his eyes on me he opens the drawer and stuffs the shirt inside. I squawk or maybe I squeal. “Just don’t look at it, Wren,” he says, attempting to calm me.

“Is that how your mom taught you to do laundry?” I tease as I pass him walking to the dresser. I snag the shirt out of the drawer and lay it out flat on the bed. “Ignoring things doesn’t make them go away. I should know. I tried with you,” I say with a wry smile.

“You’re hilarious.” He watches me attentively as I pinch the top of the shirt near the shoulder with my left hand and in the middle of the shirt with my right. Looping my left hand around my right, I pinch the end of the shirt and then untwist my arms.

Giving the shirt a quick shake to even it out before placing it flat on the bed and folding in half.

“How the fuck did you just do that?”

His astonishment makes me giggle. Wyatt’s eyes catch on mine. There’s a satisfied grin on his face for making me laugh. He should be. I don’t do it often. The fact that he made it happen so effortlessly should be a concern.

“It’s pretty simple once you learn how. I’ll teach you.” I lay out another shirt. “Pinch here and here.” I slow my movements and I put my hands in place and grab the end of the shirt. “Then, wallah,” I say as I pull the shirt taut. “It may look like a legerdemain but—”

“Motherfucker. Seriously? You set this up just to get a point.” His words come off as angry but there’s a smile on his face.

“I did no such thing. I can’t stand disorder. My brain.” I gesture to my head. “It can’t function when things are out of place. I know. I sound crazy.”

Shaking his head he says, “Nah, you don’t. I get it. I mean, well, obviously I don’t feel the same.” He smiles sheepishly looking around his room. “Needing structure and order has never been appealing to me.”

“Really? I never would have guessed.” I smirk at him.

“I’m not that bad, am I?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s bad or not. It’s your room. You’re busy and have a lot on your plate. It’s easy to let a few things slip.” Or a lot of things. I’m not usually one to cut someone slack, but Wyatt looks like he could use some.

I silently work on folding all his shirts. Most have the sleeves cut off with large holes down the side. They would be more useful as rags, yet, he’s hanging on to them for dear life.

His phone dings in fast succession, cutting off the music he was playing. Probably for the best. I keep having to stop myself from singing along.

“Does everyone text like you?” I ask as he grabs his phone off the side table.

“Most people like texting.”

“I prefer texting to talking on the phone like the next person. What I don’t understand is one word or one sentence texts. Put it all together.”

I would never admit it but there are times I find myself looking forward to his texts. I’m trained like a puppy to jump when my phone chimes. I know it will be him because they always come after I leave class or before one of my tutoring sessions. Wyatt apparently knows my entire schedule. Another thing I should find concerning, but feel quite the opposite for some reason.

“That’s called an email. This is my family chat. It always blows up. I should add you,” he says, with an evil gleam in his eye.

“I will actually kill you. How many family members do you have?” I ask as his phone continues to ping. “Can you do something about that?” I gesture toward the phone in his hand. The one that he has yet to look at and check the messages.

“I could.”

“I swear, Wyatt.”

He chuckles at my annoyance. “To answer your question, I have three brothers and a sister.”

My jaw drops. Five children. It sounds loud, overwhelming, chaotic. All the things I hate. Yet, I find myself a little jealous deep down that my upbringing was lonely and not wild like his.

“Let me guess. Your sister is the baby.”

He looks up at me from his phone. Brown shaggy hair frames his face. “No, I am.” He smirks. “They couldn’t stop until they had perfection.”

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