“I can understand that, but you need to do some damage control.”

“And how do you propose I go about doing that?”

“Well, being angry around her isn’t one of them.”

“Easier said than done,” I say softly. “And I realize that she doesn’t need my anger. I truly get that. She needs the man who can calmly talk to her and be her voice of reason like I have been in the past. But, Nola . . . I’m hurting here, and I’m having a really hard time controlling it.”

“Perhaps taking a different approach might help.”

“I’m listening.”

“You need to talk this out, so go down to her room, knock on her door, and ask her if you can just have a simple conversation. See where her head’s at. Tell her no pressure, but that you just want to know where you went wrong.”

I scrape my fingers over my jaw. “That seems like it could work. Tell her I don’t expect anything from her. I just want to know how I could be better.”

“Exactly. See, aren’t you glad I called you?”

“I’ll be glad if it works.”

“It will. Just watch. And try not to get angry, okay? I know you’re sifting through a lot of emotions at the moment, but consider where Myla comes from. Remember her background. Anger is not going to help. Text me after your heart-to-heart, and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay, sure. Thanks, Nola.”

“Any time.”

We both hang up, and I set my phone down. A simple conversation, that’s all I need to have. It shouldn’t be too hard. If I approach her without wanting to fix things between us, but to fix myself so I can be a better man, then she will be receptive. She’s never had any problem harping on me about my faults. From the very beginning, she’s always told me like it is, so this conversation should be very pleasing to her.

When I see her, I just need to remember not to let my emotions get the better of me.

I get up from my bed and head downstairs just as I hear voices in the kitchen. Two voices.

I pause on the stairs and listen closely.

I know that voice.

I’ve heard that voice many, many times.

“Okay, I say we start at the bar, grab some drinks and apps, and then see where the night takes us. Possibly the dance floor.”

Yup. I know exactly who that is.

Fucking Nichole.

I have a serious love-hate relationship with the woman. I love that she’s taken care of Myla over the years when I wasn’t there for her. And I love that she had some one-night stands with my brother so I got to meet Myla, but I fucking hate the way she treats my relationship with Myla as if it’s expendable.

There’s no doubt that those divorce papers on my nightstand are a product of a conversation with Nichole.

So if she thinks for one goddamn second they’re going out to the bars—where I know they will undoubtedly hit on men—then she is sadly mistaken. No way in fuck will I let my wife go out with Nichole.