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?

* * *

“He sort of has the right to be angry,” Nichole says while sucking an olive off her martini stick as I talk to her on FaceTime for our “happy hour.” She still lives in Chicago, and when I moved, we made a pact to meet up regularly for happy hour despite being hundreds of miles apart.

“What?” I ask in outrage. “How does he have any right to be angry?”

“Uh, he had no idea you wanted a divorce, and then bam, papers. Any person has the right to be angry about that.”

“I haven’t been happy for months, so this should not be a surprise.”

“But have you talked to him about it?” Nichole asks.

“Yes,” I nearly shout. “I have. Several times and every single conversation has been interrupted. He’s blown me off, or he flat out hasn’t listened. One time, we had a date scheduled to talk about our life and what we want, and he skipped out on that for a meeting with the Cane brothers. It’s not like I’m some heroine in a movie who breaks up with someone because of miscommunication. I’ve tried several times to have open and honest conversations. I’ve told him I’m not happy. I told him I didn’t want to move to California. He hasn’t listened. Ever since he retired from baseball, he’s been on this weird campaign to prove himself, and I don’t get it. He has several world championship wins to his name, so why does he need more? Why does he feel the need to prove himself?” My eyes well up with tears, and that’s when Nichole sets her drink down and leans closer to the phone.