Page 20 of Untying the Knot
“A week?” I ask, my voice rising. “Why a whole week?”
“Because it’s a whole thing in Napa.” He pinches his brow in frustration. “Listen, if you don’t do this, I’m not signing.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t know what else to do.” He holds his arms out. “You sprung this on me out of nowhere. So yeah, maybe I am threatening you.”
“That’s how it always is, right, Ryot? You do what it takes to get your way?” I stand and toss the throw pillow on the couch.
“Care to explain to me what your hidden message is with that statement?”
“I’m good,” I say as I move toward the fridge to grab a La Croix. “But since I want a divorce, looks like I’ll be attending your friend’s wedding, smile and all.”
“Good,” he says as he rises from the chair.
“A thank you wouldn’t hurt.”
“You want me to thank you? After you threw a divorce at me last night without discussion, just a pen and a tab of where to sign? Yeah, no such luck, Myla.” He moves by me toward the pantry, where I’m sure he’ll grab one of his godforsaken protein bars.
But as he passes, I catch a whiff of his cologne, and for a moment, and only a moment, the smell reminds me of the man I fell in love with. The man who wasn’t driven by proving himself but who simply lived life to his fullest. The man who took me into his arms when I needed him the most and showed me how much I mattered. How much he truly loves me.
And that makes me sad.
Because even though I’m angry and feel like I’ll never come first in his life, I still love him.
I still very much care for him.
And I don’t think those feelings will ever leave me. But the bitterness that has evolved, the resentment, is clouding my strong feelings and reminding me why I asked for a divorce.
Either way, it’s going to take a lot of healing and a lot of patience to get over someone like Ryot Bisley. For a few years, even though he was busy playing baseball, I knew I was his world.Well, I shared it with baseball.But I used to feel treasured. And lately, all I’ve felt is...invisible.I don’t want to live like that anymore.
When he leaves the pantry—protein bar in hand—he asks, “Do you want me to sleep in the guest room?”
I pop open my La Croix and shake my head. “I’ve already moved my stuff in there.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? Acting without discussing.”
“I’ve learned from the best,” I say, giving him a sardonic smile.
“Whatever, Myla. Just tell me how I can stay out of your way.”
“Interesting you want my opinion now. Where was that several months ago?”
He turns to face me. “The passive-aggressive comments aren’t necessary.”
“But they’re fun.”
“You know two can play at this game, right?”
“What game?” I ask.
He motions between us. “This bitterness, this resentment. You might be angry with me from months ago, but I’m angry with you now, fucking pissed off,” he growls. “So we can either live peacefully or make each other’s lives a living hell. Take your pick.”
Moving past him, I bump him with my shoulder.Live peacefully or make each other’s lives a living hell. That sounds kinda fun.“Just stay out of my way.”
And then I head to the first-floor guest room where I collapse onto my bed. I weep into my pillow because I’m at a loss. This . . . this is supposed to make me feel better. This separation is supposed to solve the problem, so why do I feel significantly worse?
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