We reach up to the Velcro but aren’t quite tall enough to reach the top.
“Let’s just fold it like a blanket,” Nichole suggests.
“No, I got this.” I stand under the Velcro on the wall, line up my hand with the Velcro on the flag, and then leap into the air and slap one side of the flag to the wall. Victorious, I do the other side and then step back to admire my work.
“It’s crooked,” Nichole says.
“Yeah, and it didn’t have that Capri Sun wet spot on it either, or the grapes. But hey, at least we hung it.”
“We sure did.” We offer each other a high five and then head out the door.
“Diner?” Nichole asks.
“Where else would we perform the walk of shame?”
We call an Uber to take us to our favorite corner diner where the late-night partiers convene and try to remember what indiscretions they participated in the night before. We are avid diners on the weekend.
Once in our seats and our food’s on the way—thanks to being well known by the waitstaff—Nichole pulls out her phone and starts searching through Instagram while I slip an electrolyte tablet from my purse and into my water.
“So how was he?” I ask.
“Easily the best orgasm of my life,” Nichole says.
“Ooo, really?”
“Oh yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”
“I was in a grape coma.” I fiddle with the paper from my straw. “But I’m glad you had your pipes cleaned.”
“God, don’t say that.” We both chuckle, and then . . . “Oh shit.”
“What?” I ask.
Smiling, she turns her phone toward me. On the screen is a picture of the crooked flag posted by a Ryot.Bisley.Balls. In the comments, it reads: To the girl who used my flag as a blanket and napkin last night, I hope you were comfortable.
“Wow, talk about passive-aggressive,” I say as I pull my phone out of my purse and look him up on Instagram.
“What are you doing?” Nichole asks.
“Responding . . . obviously.” As I type, I talk out loud. “I was quite comfortable, thanks. P.S. Invest in some snacks.”
“You’re horrible.” Nichole laughs.
I just shrug right as my phone vibrates with a notification.
“Ew,” I say.
“What?”
“Ryot.Bisley.Balls followed me.”
“Really?” She chuckles some more. “Did he respond to your comment?”
“No, just followed. What kind of psychopath does that?”
“Ryot.Bisley.Balls, apparently. So are you going to follow him back?”
“You have to know the answer to that.” I roll my eyes and then click the blue follow button next to his name. “Obviously, I would. Nothing revs my engine like a solid passive-aggressive male with no decency toward house guests.”
“Cheers to that.”
Chapter One
MYLA
Twelve years later . . .
I drum my fingers on the dining room table while staring at the clock on the stove I’ve made several meals on—meals that have felt empty and lifeless. Just sustenance to fill my stomach. Not a meal that made me feel like I was cooking for my man, in our home, to preserve a connection at the end of the day.
Nope, because that would require my husband to show up for dinner.
The third night this week I made dinner and ate alone.
The third night I received a text saying he was on his way, only for him to tell me he’d be delayed.
The eighth week in a row where I’ve felt invisible.
Do I think he’s cheating on me? Not even a freaking chance.
Do I think he’s so consumed with his new job that he’s completely forgotten about me? Abso-fucking-lutely.
It was never like this before.
Before he retired from baseball, life was simple. When he wasn’t playing, he was playing with me. Taking me out on dates, paying attention, and making up for the moments when the game took him away.
But now . . . it’s almost as if I don’t exist, and I can’t quite understand what’s changed so much over the past few months that’s driven him to be this consumed by work.
Just then, my phone buzzes on the table. I glance down to see a text from Nola, Ryot’s sister.
Nola: Umm, excuse me, but Ryot sent me pictures of your pool. Why haven’t you sent me anything yet?
Because even though it’s nice, I don’t have much in me to be excited about it.
Myla: Been super busy, sorry. You’ll have to visit and try it out for yourself.
I go to set my phone down, but she texts back right away.
Nola: Don’t tempt me. As soon as it starts becoming frigid in Maine again, I will be snowbirding to your place.
Normally, texting with Nola turns into full-on conversations because that’s how much we get along, but I just don’t have it in me.
I sigh, and I’m about to take his plate into the kitchen when I hear the garage door open, signaling his arrival.
I check the text he sent earlier when he told me he’d be ten minutes late. I then look at the time now. More like fifty-three minutes late.
The garage door opens, and in walks my incredibly charming, handsome, and very late husband.
When he spots me at the dining room table, alone with his plate of food, his expression morphs into an apology.
“Babe, fuck, I’m so sorry.” He sets his wallet, phone, and keys down on the kitchen counter and comes straight to me.
Wearing a three-piece navy-blue suit with a black button-up shirt underneath, he approaches with just enough swagger to remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place. With his kind, caring light-blue eyes, the scruff on his cheek that has rubbed against my fair skin, and the bulging muscles that strain the threads of his clothes—he’s everything a fantasy could dream up. I only wish that fantasy was still the man I fell in love with.
He rests one of his hands on the back of my chair and leans toward me. He lifts my chin and looks me in the eyes when he says, “I’m really fucking sorry, Myla.” I’ve lost count how many times I’ve heard that over the last few months.
“Thank you for apologizing,” I answer as I stand and move around him. He grips my wrist gently, halting my retreat.
“Tell me about your day.”
I look up at him and say, “I’m exhausted, Ryot. I’m going to go take a bath. Your dinner is cold, so warm it up if you want.”
I snatch my wrist away and head up to our bedroom and into the master bathroom.
We’re currently renting since we just moved out here a few months ago, and the house we’re renting is nothing I would have chosen for us. It’s a typical coastal-style house with an open floor plan, generic finishings, and expensive taste that lacks taste. From the marble bathroom, to the chandelier above the master bed, it’s all too gaudy for me, which of course makes me hate this current state of living even more.
I throw on the bathtub jets and toss a bath bomb into the shallow water. As it foams with purples and pinks—a present from Ryot—I strip down and then brush my hair out only to pin it to the top of my head so it doesn’t get wet. When the tub is ready, I shut off the faucet, keep the jets moving, and then slip in.