“I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you divorce him, then?” I ask.
“Because I don’t believe in divorce,” she says with snobbery.
“You’d rather make your life and everyone else’s around you miserable? Is that why you beat me as a child? Because you were mad at him, and you took it out on me?”
“I hit you because you were disobedient,” she growls.
“So why do I have two black eyes now?” I ask, feeling the throbbing of where she hit me last night across the eye with a shoe. “I wasn’t disobedient last night.”
“You were late to dinner, and that’s unacceptable.”
“I was one second late. I was finishing a call.”
“With that boyfriend of yours who is just like your father.”
“No, he’s not,” I say.
“Oh, no? Then where is he? Playing baseball? Your father’s work came first too, you know. I was pushed to the back. So were you. A man’s job will always come first. Always. Best you realize that now before you’re in too deep with the man.”
“Are you ready?” Nichole calls out, approaching with a stern look on her face.
I glance over my shoulder and nod. But before I leave, I say, “I don’t believe you about Dad. There is no way he had a second family.”
She points to the right. “See those two men over there? Those are his sons. And the woman next to them, that’s Miranda, his mistress. Don’t believe me, just go ask.”
I look over and see three people standing together, waiting for their last goodbyes.
“What is she talking about?” Nichole asks.
And I don’t know what it is, maybe the pain slicing through me, or the need to clear the air, but I find myself walking over to them with purposeful strides. And as I draw closer and closer, I realize the men I’m walking toward have a very distinct look about them . . . those bushy eyebrows, the blue eyes, the tall, lanky stature.
My strides slow down, and when I’m a few feet away, I whisper, “Is it true?”
The men exchange glances, and before they can answer, the woman steps up. “You must be Myla.”
Hands shaking, voice about to break, I ask, “And who the hell are you?”
Their expressions are sympathetic as the woman steps even closer. “I’m going to assume your mom just told you about us.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, it’s not fucking true. Tell me you’re not my dad’s other family.”
“I’m sorry, Myla,” Miranda says. “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Holy . . . fuck,” I say as I move away from them, gripping my head in total confusion.
“Myla, please, let us talk.”
“No . . . no.” I continue to shake my head and then look up at the woman. I point and mutter, “Fuck you. Do you . . . do you realize what you did to me? What my dad did to me? Who you both left me with? I grew up with a monster because you couldn’t understand the fact that my dad was a married man. That he couldn’t understand that he had a daughter who desperately needed him.” I shake my head again. “No. There will be no talking. I want nothing to do with you. Fuck you, all of you.”
And then I turn on my heel and head right into Nichole’s arms.
“Want me to take you home?”
“Yes, get me the hell out of here.”
“You know I love you, right?” Nichole asks as she brushes my hair away from my face.
When we got back to our shared townhome, she took me up to my room and let me cry on her lap until I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was morning, and I still hadn’t moved.
“I know,” I whisper, my throat feeling tight, hoarse from all the crying. “You might be the only one in my life who does.”
“Have you spoken to Ryot?”
I shake my head. “No. And I don’t want to.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because . . . what’s the point? My mom was right. He’s going to put baseball first. Every time. I can’t compete with that.”
“I hate to admit that your mom is right because that woman should truly be engulfed by hell at this point, but she is. This is his career. His passion. Someone who works that hard to get to that level isn’t just going to give it up. They never will. And I hate to say this, but this was an example of that truth.”
“I know,” I say softly. “I love him, Nichole, but I’m not sure he loves me enough and, after everything I’ve been through this past week, I don’t think . . . I don’t think I can handle the rejection.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks just as the door to my bedroom opens and Ryot stands on the other side.
“Ryot,” I say while sitting up. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes laser in on Nichole and then back to me. He looks . . . angry.
“We just got back. Myla, can I talk . . .” He pauses and then leans in, taking a closer look at me. “Jesus, fuck, what happened to you?”
“What do you think happened to her?” Nichole asks. “You left her with her mom.”
Ryot’s body tenses as his eyes flit back to mine. “Your mom did this?”
“Of course she did,” Nichole says. “Myla was weak and vulnerable, and her mom took advantage. Several times. This is just a culmination of a week. Should have seen the slap mark from earlier on.”
“Nichole. Please don’t,” I say.
“Is that why you wouldn’t FaceTime me?” Ryot asks.
“That should have been clue number one,” Nichole says. “But you were too busy with baseball to figure that out.”
“Can I talk to my fucking girlfriend in private, please?” he asks, looking like he’s about to lose his cool.
Nichole glances at me for permission, and I nod. She scoots off the bed and then says, “Remember what we talked about, okay? You do what’s best for you.” And then she walks out of the bedroom, but not before bumping Ryot in the shoulder.
When the door is closed, Ryot rushes over to the bed and sits next to me. “Myla, why didn’t you fucking tell me?” He reaches out and gently caresses my cheek. “Have you pressed charges? Or are you going to press charges?”
I shake my head and try to find words to answer him. But I can’t say anything because the moment I try to open my mouth, a flood of tears hits me all at once.
RYOT
I should have stayed with her.
Not just because I had the worst series of my life, thanks to my inability to focus on anything but Myla, but because she clearly needed me so much more than I anticipated. If I had been with her, this would have never happened. Her mom would never have hit her . . . several times.
Fuck.
Bile rises to my throat from the thought of it. All I can picture is Myla, cowering as her mother lashed out. It’s absolutely sickening.
“Myla, please talk to me.”
She sucks in a deep breath, and when I think she’s going to lean into me, she pulls away and scoots to the other side of the bed. “I think . . . I think you should go,” she says, her voice wobbly.