“Wow, talk about passive-aggressive,” I say as I pull my phone out of my purse and look him up on Instagram.

“What are you doing?” Nichole asks.

“Responding . . . obviously.” As I type, I talk out loud. “I was quite comfortable, thanks. P.S. Invest in some snacks.”

“You’re horrible.” Nichole laughs.

I just shrug right as my phone vibrates with a notification.

“Ew,” I say.

“What?”

“Ryot.Bisley.Balls followed me.”

“Really?” She chuckles some more. “Did he respond to your comment?”

“No, just followed. What kind of psychopath does that?”

“Ryot.Bisley.Balls, apparently. So are you going to follow him back?”

“You have to know the answer to that.” I roll my eyes and then click the blue follow button next to his name. “Obviously, I would. Nothing revs my engine like a solid passive-aggressive male with no decency toward house guests.”

“Cheers to that.”

Chapter One

MYLA

Twelve years later . . .

I drum my fingers on the dining room table while staring at the clock on the stove I’ve made several meals on—meals that have felt empty and lifeless. Just sustenance to fill my stomach. Not a meal that made me feel like I was cooking for my man, in our home, to preserve a connection at the end of the day.

Nope, because that would require my husband to show up for dinner.

The third night this week I made dinner and ate alone.

The third night I received a text saying he was on his way, only for him to tell me he’d be delayed.

The eighth week in a row where I’ve felt invisible.

Do I think he’s cheating on me? Not even a freaking chance.

Do I think he’s so consumed with his new job that he’s completely forgotten about me? Abso-fucking-lutely.

It was never like this before.

Before he retired from baseball, life was simple. When he wasn’t playing, he was playing with me. Taking me out on dates, paying attention, and making up for the moments when the game took him away.

But now . . . it’s almost as if I don’t exist, and I can’t quite understand what’s changed so much over the past few months that’s driven him to be this consumed by work.

Just then, my phone buzzes on the table. I glance down to see a text from Nola, Ryot’s sister.

Nola: Umm, excuse me, but Ryot sent me pictures of your pool. Why haven’t you sent me anything yet?

Because even though it’s nice, I don’t have much in me to be excited about it.

Myla: Been super busy, sorry. You’ll have to visit and try it out for yourself.

I go to set my phone down, but she texts back right away.

Nola: Don’t tempt me. As soon as it starts becoming frigid in Maine again, I will be snowbirding to your place.

Normally, texting with Nola turns into full-on conversations because that’s how much we get along, but I just don’t have it in me.