She wipes at her eyes, pulling the tears away and then rubbing them on her shirt. Fuck, I did this to her. I made her this upset, and everything she’s saying, it’s . . . fuck, it’s true. She’s one hundred percent right. One hundred percent validated. I never asked her. I plowed forward.

“And the problem with assuming, Ryot, is that you took it upon yourself to figure out what was best for us, but what was best for us wasn’t shutting me out. Nor was it walking all over me. This might sound selfish, but I’ve spent our whole relationship focusing on your dreams. And I was okay with that because we had an understanding, a promise: that after you retired, we’d focus on a goal together, just you and me.” Tears are now flooding her cheeks, and there’s no point stopping them. “But when is that going to happen, Ryot? When were you planning on bringing your goals and your dreams back to me, back to us?”

She takes a deep breath, and when her eyes connect with mine, I know I’ve lost her. Right here, at this moment, I’ve lost her. I’ve let her slip between my fingers. I’ve handled everything so poorly, so immaturely, and so selfishly.

With one final blow, she says, “And I’ve tried bringing it back to us. I planned a vacation at Jason Orson’s cabin. I’ve planned date nights that you’ve canceled. I was even trying to tell you about the progress I’ve made with Renovate Chicago and the classes I’ve taken to make myself more valuable to our partnership. But it’s all been pointless, because, during the pursuit of your dreams, you’ve completely forgotten about me. Abandoned me. Like my dad. You’ve invested in everything outside of our marriage and nothing to our marriage. And I just can’t keep fighting for something only one of us wants.”

She’s right. I have no argument. Fuck.

Looking back over the past couple of months, if I really think hard, I can remember those canceled dates. I can remember the trip to the cabin when I spent most of it on the computer. My neglect is unmistakable. And I promised her I’d never do that. That I’d always ensure she felt heard. Her pain, her anger, is justified.

Needing to say something, I start, “Myla—”

She holds up her hand, stopping me. “Don’t.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to hear your sorrys or your reasoning, because it doesn’t hold any weight. Whatever you say will be a reaction, not something that’s been well-thought-out. So for both of us, don’t apologize.”

I push my hand through my hair and say, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, when I asked?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you,” she answers. “Contrary to what you might think, I do care about you, Ryot, and I knew if I told you the truth, then you would be hurt, and I didn’t want that.”

“But not telling me the truth has only led to frustration and hurt anyway.”