But seeing the hunger and hate in her eyes makes me feel unsettled. It’s like this burning dagger is digging into my stomach, and I don’t know how to stop the pain. I don’t know how to end this miserable feeling. I don’t know how to make things better. I don’t know what she means about not hearing her. Fuck, I was complimenting her at dinner, and she seemed . . . shocked. Am I that much of an asshole that my praise surprised her?

For a moment, a brief second when my tongue was between her legs, it felt like everything was going to be okay. I know deep down that it’s not. I’m on the verge of losing her. And I have no idea how to stop that from happening.

And I don’t know how to stop this anger.

This bitterness.

This resentment I have for myself.

It’s clouding me.

Torturing me.

Making me act out in ways I never would have before.

And for the life of me, I don’t see an end to it all.

Chapter Twelve

MYLA

Seven years ago . . .

“Oh God, he saw me,” I say to Nichole, who is gripping my hand excitedly. “This was a bad idea. Why did we do this?”

“Because you can’t stop thinking about him. Because I got free tickets, and it’s about time you stop moping around the apartment and put yourself out there.”

“Nichole, look around. Ryot is beloved by this city. Do you know how many Bisley shirts I saw as we walked in? He’s way out of my league, way too nice, and I’m only going to bring him down. I can feel it. I will hurt him because I’m not mentally fit for a relationship.” She made sure of that many years ago.

“And how long have you said that?” Nichole asks. Probably forever. A montage of the Bobbies starts playing on the jumbotron. The fans around us erupt in cheers.

You can tell I’ve never been to a baseball game because I have no idea what’s happening. “I think you’ve said that ever since I’ve known you. Don’t be that person, Myla.”

“What person?” I ask as I clap reflexively because everyone else is.

“The person who never shows any growth in their life, but rather stays in their past, reliving the horrid lessons learned from their childhood. You are so much better than that, and it’s about time you start showing it. You are so much better than what your mother made you feel about yourself. And it’s about time you believe that. You have so much potential to be anyone you want, anything you want, Myla, but you’re not allowing that. Well, I’m sick of it.”

Her voice is angry and irritated. Unlike anything I’ve heard from her. It’s startling.

“It’s not that easy,” I say as the Bobbies run out onto the field to their spots. My eyes immediately fixate on Ryot, who jogs out to third base. I notice his number, twenty-two, and I wonder about the story behind it. Did he pick it out? Does it have sentimental value to him?