“So let’s just have a conversation then.” I wet my lips and say, “The past few days have felt like we transported to six years ago, hell, even six months ago, before everything with The Jock Report exploded. And maybe I’ve gotten lost in this . . . this bubble where we’ve tried to find healing and perhaps got lost in it all. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.”

“I feel like there’s a but that follows that sentence,” he replies while his hand slips under the hem of my shirt and his warm palm presses against my hip.

I take a deep breath and say, “I don’t want to hurt you, Ryot. And I know you want clarity, you want to know what all of this is, what it means, but I don’t have a fair answer for you.” I speak softly, clearly. “I can’t go back to the way we were living. It was demoralizing, not having my husband interested in my life, only hyper-focused on his. And I know this seems easy now, you and me, but that’s because we’re not living real life. Outside of this Napa Valley bubble, you still have your responsibilities, I still don’t matter, and we can’t seem to find a neutral space.”

“Myla, you matter. I might not have shown that over the past few months, and that’s something I have to live with, but I need you to know, you do matter.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I just . . . I don’t know, Ryot.” I waver between wanting him and being scared while having to protect my scars and my mental health. “I want to believe everything between us could magically just . . . go back. They could change, we could grow, but I’m just not sure.”

He nods in understanding, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to get mad, to show an ounce of anger, because frankly, he has to be frustrated. We both are. But he doesn’t.

“How about this?” His hand slides up my side, to my ribs, dragging my shirt with him. “Instead of trying to pick a direction for which way we’ll be going, why don’t we just take this one day at a time, one hour if you want? Just continue to connect, be honest, and see what happens?”

I can see it in those sparkling eyes of his that he doesn’t want to let go. Even though he said he would before we left for Napa. To my face, in his letter.

And I told Nichole . . . I wasn’t sure if I could let go either. Yet I’m not sure I can stay.

My silence must worry him because he adds, “Just one moment at a time, Myla.”

My eyes meet his, and I ask, “That won’t give you hope?”

“No.” He shakes his head, but I don’t fully believe him. “I just want to spend some time with you. Even if it’s a farewell, at least I get to remember this time with you and part ways wishing you joy and happiness.”