“Me either,” I say quietly.
She quiets as well when she says, “You realize that was single-handedly the best moment of my life? And sure, when you proposed was beautiful and our wedding was the best day of my life, but when you stood up for me, when you promised my mom that she would never, ever hold her strength over me ever again, I felt free. Free for the first time, like you released me from this dreary life I was living under.”
“I told you I’d protect you until my dying day.” I move my fork across my plate and say, “I might have lost sight of that for a second, but even when we go our separate ways, I will always protect you, Myla. Always.”
“You never stopped protecting me, Ryot.” The air between us grows thick, and I don’t know what to say, what to do other than wish and hope that after this time in Napa is over . . . we’re not over.
“I messed up, Myla.”
“You did,” she replies. “But you never stopped protecting me.”
Guilt consumes me as I think about her words that night.
“When you retired early from baseball, it was as if this cloud cast over you, and you turned into a different man. You looked straight ahead, plowed forward, and you walked over everyone to prove yourself . . . including me.”
How can she say I never stopped protecting her?
“You might not have needed protection from the outside world, but you needed protection from me.” I let out a deep sigh and then look up at the ceiling. “Shit, I just turned a good time into a morose one.”
“I think it was needed,” she says, pulling my attention back to her. She nibbles on the corner of her lip before saying, “I think getting this out, hearing it all, I think that’s what we needed.” Her eyes connect with mine. “You haven’t been the man I married for the past few months. Why, Ryot? Did retiring early really hurt you that much?”
My eyes dart to the side as my chest tightens.
“Look at me, Ryot.” I take a moment, but when I finally look her way, she says, “Were you hurt mentally?”
After a few seconds, I say, “I felt meaningless.” She sets her wineglass down and then rises from her chair before moving it right next to mine. When she sits back down, she places her hand on my thigh. “My entire life has been baseball. Nothing else. I spent so many fucking years chasing the dream that when I made it, I spent the rest of that time making sure I earned that spot and didn’t miss a training or a practice because I was terrified of becoming a has-been.” I shake my head. “When I hurt my rotator cuff, I knew deep down that that was it. It was the end. I was too old to make a full recovery, and there were younger and cheaper guys waiting to take my position. It happened so fast, like one giant nightmare. One day I was living my dream—with you at my side—and the next, it was all over.” And although she was at my side, I no longer saw anything but the disappointment.
“You felt like it was stolen from you.”
“Yes,” I answer. “I felt like I needed to demonstrate that I wasn’t meaningless by finding success elsewhere. I kept chasing after something that validated me. Nothing I’ve done has really taken away the hurt. The utter disbelief that the life I loved was finished was all I could see. Looking at it now, it’s so clear how ridiculous that was. At that point, I still had you. So, I actually had everything I needed.”
When our eyes meet, I cup her cheek and softly say, “But by the time I lifted my head to see the world around me, I was too blind to realize that I neglected the one thing that mattered the most to me.”
“How come you never told me how you were really feeling? It seems like you were spiraling, Ryot.”
“I was . . . I am,” I answer honestly before pressing my palm to my eye. “I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to believe it. But listening to you, looking in on myself, and spending these past few days with you, as if . . . as if we are the same couple from six years ago, it’s made me realize that I haven’t been happy these past few months. I’ve just been pretending.”
“Why?”
I press my hand to hers and whisper, “Because I’m supposed to be the strong one, Myla. I’m the one who is supposed to do the protecting. I’m the one who is supposed to take care of you. Not the other way around.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks and then presses her fingers to my chin so I’m forced to face my problems head-on. “Ryot, a marriage is about being in a partnership. It’s never one-sided. You aren’t the only one in our marriage who was supposed to be strong.”
“I realize that now,” I say and then leave it at that. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to get into this in a restaurant, or really get into it at all because it just hit me like a ton of bricks.
My career.
My feelings.
My inability to lean on Myla when I should have.
I pushed her away, ignored her, and tried my hardest to show that I wasn’t hurting.
I put on a show for the world to let whoever was watching know that I was happy, successful, and pleased with the new chapter in my life, but in reality, I haven’t been.
“Are you okay? You went quiet on me,” Myla says.
“Yeah,” I answer while I smooth my hand over my leg. “You know, I’m getting pretty tired. Want to head back to the room?”
She studies me for a moment, and I feel her wanting to press more, to dive deep into my confession, but thankfully, she doesn’t. “Sure.”
I pay the bill, and then we both rise from the table, and I take her hand in mine. Together, we head back to our hotel room.
MYLA
I stare at my reflection in the mirror while I finish brushing my teeth. Ryot already finished getting ready and is in bed, but I’ve taken longer because I’ve needed to stop and think.
I’ve been thinking about tonight, about the past few months, about missing the cues that Ryot might be depressed or hurting. Feeling like he didn’t want to show me weakness because he assumes I’m the weak one in the relationship . . .
That last one is giving me a second. I know he didn’t say it, but he didn’t really have to. It was written all over his face. And I don’t know how I feel about it.
I’m not mad.
I’m not really upset either.
Because how could I blame him? After everything we’ve been through, he’s been the protector. He’s been the one who shielded me—our marriage from the press, from my mom, from the world—and he’s cherished that role and me up until a few months ago.
I spit out my toothpaste and rinse my mouth before drying off.
I stare at my reflection again. God, I’m so confused, yet I still want to be near him. I don’t want this day to end with an awkward beat between us. That’s why I find myself slipping off my bra and underwear and slipping on one of his shirts.
When I open the bathroom door, I spot him resting in bed, one hand behind his head while the other rests at the edge of the sheets that barely reach his waistline, leaving his impressive chest on full display. The contours of his muscles are highlighted even more by the dim lighting. The casted shadows play with the divots and curves along his pecs and abdomen, showing off his brute, carved strength. And then there’s the way he looks at me. His eyes roam from my legs all the way up to my face in an appreciative, starving perusal. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t shift. He just stares at me like a hungry man, ready to devour his meal.