It’s how he’s always looked at me. He’s always made me feel like the sexiest woman in the room, despite how I might have felt about my body in the past, thanks to my mom. He’s loved my curves, he hasn’t batted an eyelash when I’ve gained some weight, and he’s never once turned me away, always worshipping.
Always.
“Hey, baby.” He wets his lips.
“Hey,” I say softly and go to my side of the bed, where I slip under the covers.
As I turn toward him, he turns as well and props his head up as his hand falls to my side. “I’m sorry for ruining the end of our night.”
“You didn’t ruin it.”
His hand grips me tighter as he says, “I did. We were having a great time, and I brought down the evening.”
“You were being honest, Ryot. That’s not bringing down the evening.”
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t come close to reaching his normal one. “Well, either way, I’m sorry.”
“Ryot, you don’t need to—”
“Myla, can I ask you something?”
I pause, confused, and say, “Sure. Of course.”
His eyes fall to my lips and then back up to my eyes as he says, “I don’t want to be that guy, but . . . today kind of rocked me, and I just need to know where you stand when it comes to me.”
I open my mouth to answer, but he continues, “I don’t want to put pressure on you. Trust me, that’s the furthest thing from my mind, but I also need to know if you see this time we’re spending together as some sort of goodbye tour, one last hurrah kind of thing. And if it is, then that’s fine, but I need to know because I don’t want to get my hopes up that what we’re doing could be something else. But if this feeling, this electricity, these conversations are repairing what we used to have, please tell me. I want to work things out with you.”
Well, I was not expecting him to want to talk about that. I assumed that it would be more about how he had to leave baseball, but then again, that conversation seems to be paused. I think it was paused at the restaurant. As much as I love to believe that he’s been completely open with me, I can sense that he’s still hiding things, feelings he’s keeping to himself. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t fully feel them yet, or if he’s hiding them for a reason.
This question might be the reason.
He’s protecting himself.
I’m protecting myself.
And I’m not sure either one of us knows how to navigate this.
The only option at this moment is to be as honest as possible, even if it might not be what he wants to hear. “Will you hate me if I say I’m not entirely sure what this is?”
His voice softens as he says, “Myla, I could never hate you. There might be times when I’m frustrated or angry, but I never feel hate toward you. Ever.”
And I know that’s the truth. We’ve been through so much, and even in the end, he’s always shown me love. Even now, after he signed the papers, he’s showing me love. I just wish . . . I wish we hadn’t stumbled . . . or drifted apart during those last few months.
I drag my finger over the divot between his pecs and say, “I’ve missed you, Ryot. This trip, well, it’s been fun, and I feel like we haven’t had fun in a while.”
“We haven’t,” he replies. “And that’s my fault, I know—”
“There’s no reason to point fingers and assign blame. That’s not going to do anything other than continue the bitter awkwardness between us, and I don’t want that.”
“I don’t want that either,” he says as his hand moves to the hem of my shirt.
“So let’s just have a conversation then.” I wet my lips and say, “The past few days have felt like we transported to six years ago, hell, even six months ago, before everything with The Jock Report exploded. And maybe I’ve gotten lost in this . . . this bubble where we’ve tried to find healing and perhaps got lost in it all. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.”
“I feel like there’s a but that follows that sentence,” he replies while his hand slips under the hem of my shirt and his warm palm presses against my hip.
I take a deep breath and say, “I don’t want to hurt you, Ryot. And I know you want clarity, you want to know what all of this is, what it means, but I don’t have a fair answer for you.” I speak softly, clearly. “I can’t go back to the way we were living. It was demoralizing, not having my husband interested in my life, only hyper-focused on his. And I know this seems easy now, you and me, but that’s because we’re not living real life. Outside of this Napa Valley bubble, you still have your responsibilities, I still don’t matter, and we can’t seem to find a neutral space.”
“Myla, you matter. I might not have shown that over the past few months, and that’s something I have to live with, but I need you to know, you do matter.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I just . . . I don’t know, Ryot.” I waver between wanting him and being scared while having to protect my scars and my mental health. “I want to believe everything between us could magically just . . . go back. They could change, we could grow, but I’m just not sure.”
He nods in understanding, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to get mad, to show an ounce of anger, because frankly, he has to be frustrated. We both are. But he doesn’t.
“How about this?” His hand slides up my side, to my ribs, dragging my shirt with him. “Instead of trying to pick a direction for which way we’ll be going, why don’t we just take this one day at a time, one hour if you want? Just continue to connect, be honest, and see what happens?”
I can see it in those sparkling eyes of his that he doesn’t want to let go. Even though he said he would before we left for Napa. To my face, in his letter.
And I told Nichole . . . I wasn’t sure if I could let go either. Yet I’m not sure I can stay.
My silence must worry him because he adds, “Just one moment at a time, Myla.”
My eyes meet his, and I ask, “That won’t give you hope?”
“No.” He shakes his head, but I don’t fully believe him. “I just want to spend some time with you. Even if it’s a farewell, at least I get to remember this time with you and part ways wishing you joy and happiness.”
Something about the desperation in his voice, and the compromising just to keep talking to me, makes me feel so fucking guilty. I know he’s not trying to make me feel that way, but we’re both in a tough spot, and I know I’m waffling. I should have a clear-cut answer for him, but I don’t.
“I’m sorry, Ryot.”
Panic envelops his irises as his eyes bounce back and forth, looking at me.
Looking for answers.
He swallows hard and says, “Why are you sorry?”
“Because, instead of being a mentally strong person, you must deal with my past trauma, which doesn’t allow me to give you a straight answer. I wish I could, but I’m scared. Damaged. Afraid.” Terrified of feeling so utterly abandoned by the man who swore he’d never leave me. My dad’s true life blindsided me at the funeral, but I’m still unable to fully forgive him for leaving me with Mom when he did. He must have known what she did to me. He heard all the things she said and didn’t defend me. His silence felt like abandonment. And Ryot’s silence triggered that.