Page 157 of Untying the Knot
“You felt like it was stolen from you.”
“Yes,” I answer. “I felt like I needed to demonstrate thatIwasn’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 stareat 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.
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.
