Untying the Knot

by Meghan Quinn

Genres: Billionaires Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A spin-off from the #1 Amazon bestsellers, A Not So Meet Cute and So Not Meant To Be, Meghan Quinn brings you a heart-warming, yet hilarious take on an enemies to lovers romance.

On the verge of a divorce, Ryot Bisley, former Chicago Rebels third baseman, and his wife Myla are forced to come face to face with their marital problems and whether they have more than just chemistry in the bedroom.

More to come.

 

Read more

Release date: November 15, 2022

Publisher: Meghan Quinn

Sample

Prologue

 

**MYLA**

 

“How does my hair look?” Nichole asks as she pushes the short blonde locks behind her ear.

“Still fresh, still curled, but don’t put it behind your ear,” I whisper.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Breath?” She blows in my face.

I take a large sniff—because that’s what best friends are for—and say, “Smells like nothing.”

“Good.” She tugs on the hem of her black dress. “I thought those nachos we had at the bar were going to make me have cheese breath.”

“Cheese breath is nowhere to be found.”

“Thank God.” She glances up the stairs of the townhome and then back at me. “He’s cute, right?”

“Uh, he’s more than cute,” I answer. “He’s hot.”

“Yeah, okay. I wasn’t sure if I was making it up in my head. But he’s hot. His jawline is incredible.”

“And his shoulders are broad,” I answer. “And even though his shirt is loose, you can tell he has muscles.”

“Lots of muscles, and what are we a fan of?” Nichole asks.

“Men with muscles,” I answer with a fist pump.

“And this place is pretty nice.” Nichole glances around. “I mean, it screams bachelor pad, but we’ve seen worse.”

“Totally. At least beer cans aren’t being used as decorations.”

“Just stupid sports flags,” Nichole says, gesturing to the large Phoenix Studmuffins flag pinned to the stark white wall.

One couch, one enormous TV mounted on the wall with loose cords, brown carpet that’s seen better days, and a single four-by-six picture of two guys hanging next to the TV, their arms wrapped around each other in a “bro hug.” There’s not much to the space, not even a dining table where a dining table should be. It’s just empty.

“Do you think they like the Studmuffins?” I ask. “That flag is very large. They’re obviously fans of the Triple-A team.”

“How do you know it’s Triple-A?” Nichole asks. “You don’t watch baseball.”

“I waited a table that just came from a game.” I shrug. “Either way, I wonder if they’re actually fans or if it’s more of an ironic thing. You know, like . . . they got it for free, and now it’s the only decoration they have besides the four-by-six frame that’s made for a side table, not a wall.”

Nichole taps her chin. “Hmm, well, the guy . . . God, what’s his name again?”

“Banner,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

Out of the two of us, Nichole likes to sleep around, and I have no problem with that. Get it in while you can is what I say, but we’re a package deal. Not as in threesome potential, but as in I have no shame in waiting for Nichole to get done with her business so we can walk out together, hand in hand.

“Oh right, Banner. Anyway, he seems more ironic than anything. The flowers on his button-up shirt scream ironic.”

“I could see that,” I answer just as the stairs creak.

“Oh God, he’s coming.” Nichole flashes her teeth at me. “Anything in them?”

“Nope, you’re good.”

“And breath is fine still?”

“It didn’t change in the past three minutes.”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Opens and closes. “How’s my range, you know, in case I need to slip anything in my mouth tonight?”

I chuckle. “Looking a little stiff, but I’m sure he’ll be stiff as well.”

“Ha, good one.”

“Hey,” Banner says from the doorway of the living room. “Uh, you want to head up?” He gestures toward the stairs with his thumb. When we arrived, he asked for a minute—most likely to clean his room, make his bed, you know, make things comfortable—so we took a seat, but it looks like planned sexual intercourse is about to commence.

“Yeah, sure,” Nichole says nonchalantly as she stands.

Eyes on me, Banner asks, “Are you just going to . . . sit there?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say as I lean back on the couch and cross one leg over the other.

“You don’t want to go home or anything?” he asks, looking far too confused.

“Nope, I’m good. I’ll just wait for Nichole. The couch is comfy, and if you can just direct me to the remote, I’ll drown out the inevitable moans.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says as he walks over to the TV and removes the remote Velcroed to the side of it. Huh, they don’t have a dining room table, but they have the wherewithal to Velcro the TV remote so it doesn’t get lost. What kind of household is this?

He tosses the remote, and I do a fine job of not even coming close to catching it. It hits me in the arm instead.

“Ooof, that will leave a mark,” I say. Rubbing my arm, I ask, “I’m going to assume what’s yours is mine in this scenario?”

“What?” he asks, his brow furrowed. The patience in this one is wearing thin. Bet he didn’t expect to bring home a hot date . . . and a squatter, but here we are.

“Am I free to roam about the cabin? You know, eat and drink what’s available? I mean, my friend will be offering you one hell of an orgasm tonight—she’s already done mouth stretches.”

Nichole smiles brightly. “I did.”

“So am I free to make myself at home?”

“Oh, yeah . . . sure,” he answers and then looks at Nichole. “You did mouth stretches?”

“Always come prepared is my motto.”

I stand from the couch and walk over to them. I place my hand on Banner’s arm and say, “She’s very bendy. Have fun.” I give his arm a squeeze and then offer Nichole a thumbs-up. “Muscles are popping.”

“Oh, yay.” She takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs as I head to the kitchen.

Surprisingly more open than I expected, the kitchen is shrouded by dark oak cabinets, tan speckled countertops, and one window that looks out into what I’m going to assume is a backyard. Can’t quite tell since it’s past eleven at night. Not a single dish in the sink, the counters are shockingly clean, which means either they don’t cook or they can actually clean up after themselves, and there are only two appliances in the kitchen. A coffee pot—nothing fancy, something you can buy at Target for twenty dollars on sale or snag for fifteen on Black Friday—and the most enormous toaster oven I’ve ever seen.

I walk up to it and pull down the hatch. “What does this hold? A whole loaf of bread at the same time? My God, where do you buy something like this?” I then try the fridge. “Would you look at that? Fruit and veggies.” I bend down and push around Tupperware with precut vegetables. “This is real Tupperware. That’s impressive. Ooo, a Capri Sun.” I snag a fruit punch and then shut the fridge door. “Food, where is the food?”

I open a few empty cabinets, which makes me think they really don’t cook here since there’s nothing to cook with, and then I stumble across some food.

“What do we have here?” I push past boxes of oatmeal, protein bars—hmm, maple donut, wasn’t sure anyone liked that flavor—and tubs of protein powder. “Typical,” I mutter. Normally, I’m a healthy-ish person who can appreciate a solid tub of whey protein, but not after a sweaty night of drinking and dancing in a bar. I need some snacking food.

I move to another cabinet, and then another, and another but come up short. Hoping I can find something in the freezer, I whip that open as well, wishing for an ice cream bar of some sort but only find rotten bananas and ice packs.

“What kind of household is this?” Groaning, I go back to the fridge, snag the Tupperware full of grapes—plucked from the vine—and head back into the living room, where I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. I go straight to TBS, knowing there will be sitcom reruns, and to my delight, it’s The Big Bang Theory. “Oh Sheldon, you crazy fuck,” I say as I pop open the grapes and start inhaling them one at a time.

I’m in the middle of poking my straw through the hole in the Capri Sun when the front door opens and shuts. Locks are engaged, shoes are kicked off, and a bag of some sort slams to the floor before a man appears in the living room entryway.

Well, would you look at that? Hello, sir.

Tall, broad with brown hair, a man stands in front of me sporting a pair of baggy sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt. His long fingers twitch at his sides as his sculpted shoulders set back when he realizes he’s not alone. Hiding under a Studmuffins hat is a piercing set of blue eyes that carry confusion as he looks me up and down.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks.

I toss a grape in my mouth and answer, “A guest to this residence. Who the hell are you?”

“The renter of this residence,” he responds.

“Ah, well . . . it would help guests greatly if you offer them more variety of snacks when they come over. Protein bars and grapes aren’t going to cut it.”

He glances around, clearly looking for any indication of what the hell is going on, and then turns back toward me. “Who are you here with? Banner?”

“Why yes, I am, technically.” I hold my finger up to my mouth and say, “Now, shush. You’re interrupting my show.”

He glances at the TV and then back at me again. “Where the hell is Banner?”

“God, you with the questions.” I roll my eyes. “He’s upstairs with my best friend having sex.”

“And you’re down here, eating grapes and watching a show?”

“Yes, that’s precisely what’s happening. Good job stating the obvious.”

He pulls on the back of his neck and shakes his head. “I don’t have the fucking patience right now to deal with this.”

“Good, then you can leave me to my show.” With another shake, he heads up the stairs when I say, “Uh, dude . . . man, guy.”

“Ryot,” he says.

“What’s that now?”

“My name is Ryot.”

“Oh, that’s an interesting one. Okay then, parents attempting to make you popular straight out of the womb. Anyway, do you happen to have a blanket? There’s a swift breeze coming from the window, and I’d rather not catch a chill while sitting here.”

“No, I don’t,” he answers.

“You don’t have one single blanket?”

“Not for you to use,” he answers again. This time, he starts walking up the stairs.

“Sheesh, what kind of host are you?”

“I’m not. You shouldn’t be here.” And before I can respond, he’s out of earshot.

Well, he’s fucking rude.

It’s not like I asked for a homemade turkey dinner. I’m just looking for an ounce of comfort here.

Comfort I now need to find myself.

I glance around the downstairs and wonder if there’s a blanket in a closet somewhere but realize that if he doesn’t have even a single piece of junk food in the house, he’s not going to have a spare quilt from a kooky aunt just rolled up waiting to be used.

Urgh, that’s annoying.

A chill races up my spine as the air conditioner kicks on. This is not going to do.

I consider slipping my body under the couch cushions, but sure, their countertops might be clean, but who knows what has happened on this couch?

Do I ask for a spare sweatshirt?

Not sure Ryot would be partial to sparing his warm-weather garments, and if I’ve learned anything in the past, never disrupt Nichole while she’s with a man—that’s how I found out she’s so bendy.

Hmm . . . I glance down at the cushion again . . . maybe I could unzip it and slip my body inside?

No.

Nope.

Not going to happen. People fart on couches, so there are farts in these threads and I just won’t do it.

I sigh and lean back on the couch just as my eyes connect with the flag.

Huh.

You know . . .

That quite possibly could work.

I set my grapes and Capri Sun down and stand to examine the flag. It looks to be at least six feet long. A nylon material won’t replace the warm cocoon of a wool sweater, but beggars can’t be choosers.

This will have to do.

I examine how it’s hung up and notice that it’s held on the wall by Velcro as well. What is with these guys? Have they never heard of Command strips?

Either way, I give the flag a solid yank, listen to the sweet sound of Velcro tearing apart from its long-lost lover, and then bundle it up as I bring it to the couch.

Oh yes, I can already tell this was a good choice. I snuggle in close to my Studmuffin flag, grab my Tupperware of grapes and my Capri Sun, and sit back and relax.

There, now this is living.

 

***

 

“Myla . . . Myla, wake up.”

“Two more minutes, Dad,” I murmur into my pillow.

“Myla, it’s Nichole. Wake up.” She shakes my shoulder, startling me out of a haze.

“Huh? What?” I ask, my eyes peeping open to find Nichole standing in front of me, her hair a mess and razor burn peppered along her face. “What’s happening?”

“Time to go, Myla.”

“Go where?” In my sleepy haze, I assess my surroundings. Where the hell am I?

“Home.” Nichole tugs at the fabric wrapped around my body. “What are you doing with this?”

“With what?” I attempt to sit up, but I’m wrapped like a burrito, making it next to impossible. I shift to the left, then to the right, loosening the confines around me. That’s when I notice the lettering, the scratchy fabric . . . and the damp feeling on my stomach. Oh God.

Nichole’s one-night stand.

Feeling cold.

The flag . . .

“Dear Jesus, did I . . . did I wet myself?” I ask.

“What? Myla, please tell me that’s not true.”

Let’s pray it’s not.

“I don’t normally wet myself,” I say as Nichole helps lift me and then unravels me from the flag.

“What are you doing wrapped in this?”

“That Ryot guy wouldn’t give me a blanket.”

“You met Banner’s brother?” Nichole asks as she strips me of the flag, revealing an empty Capri Sun pouch resting on my “wet spot.” Both of us heave a sigh of relief. Well, that is a gift. Peeing faculties are still intact.

“Ryot is Banner’s brother? Wow, they look nothing alike.” I stand, and a few grapes fall to the ground.

“Where the hell were those stashed away?”

“Can’t be sure.” I take the flag from Nichole and bring it over to the wall. “Help me with this. If anything, we are tidy house guests.”

We reach up to the Velcro but aren’t quite tall enough to reach the top.

“Let’s just fold it like a blanket,” Nichole suggests.

“No, I got this.” I stand under the Velcro on the wall, line up my hand with the Velcro on the flag, and then leap into the air and slap one side of the flag to the wall. Victorious, I do the other side and then step back to admire my work.

“It’s crooked,” Nichole says.

“Yeah, and it didn’t have that Capri Sun wet spot on it either, or the grapes. But hey, at least we hung it.”

“We sure did.” We offer each other a high five and then head out the door.

“Diner?” Nichole asks.

“Where else would we perform the walk of shame?”

We call an Uber to take us to our favorite corner diner where the late-night partiers convene and try to remember what indiscretions they participated in the night before. We are avid diners on the weekend.

Once in our seats and our food’s on the way—thanks to being well known by the waitstaff—Nichole pulls out her phone and starts searching through Instagram while I slip an electrolyte tablet from my purse and into my water.

“So how was he?” I ask.

“Easily the best orgasm of my life,” Nichole says.

“Ooo, really?”

“Oh yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”

“I was in a grape coma.” I fiddle with the paper from my straw. “But I’m glad you had your pipes cleaned.”

“God, don’t say that.” We both chuckle, and then . . . “Oh shit.”

“What?” I ask.

Smiling, she turns her phone toward me. On the screen is a picture of the crooked flag posted by a Ryot.Bisley.Balls. In the comments, it reads: To the girl who used my flag as a blanket and napkin last night, I hope you were comfortable.

“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.

I sigh, and I’m about to take his plate into the kitchen when I hear the garage door open, signaling his arrival.

I check the text he sent earlier when he told me he’d be ten minutes late. I then look at the time now. More like fifty-three minutes late.

The garage door opens, and in walks my incredibly charming, handsome, and very late husband.

When he spots me at the dining room table, alone with his plate of food, his expression morphs into an apology.

“Babe, fuck, I’m so sorry.” He sets his wallet, phone, and keys down on the kitchen counter and comes straight to me.

Wearing a three-piece navy-blue suit with a black button-up shirt underneath, he approaches with just enough swagger to remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place. With his kind, caring light-blue eyes, the scruff on his cheek that has rubbed against my fair skin, and the bulging muscles that strain the threads of his clothes—he’s everything a fantasy could dream up. I only wish that fantasy was still the man I fell in love with.

He rests one of his hands on the back of my chair and leans toward me. He lifts my chin and looks me in the eyes when he says, “I’m really fucking sorry, Myla.” I’ve lost count how many times I’ve heard that over the last few months.

“Thank you for apologizing,” I answer as I stand and move around him. He grips my wrist gently, halting my retreat.

“Tell me about your day.”

I look up at him and say, “I’m exhausted, Ryot. I’m going to go take a bath. Your dinner is cold, so warm it up if you want.”

I snatch my wrist away and head up to our bedroom and into the master bathroom.

We’re currently renting since we just moved out here a few months ago, and the house we’re renting is nothing I would have chosen for us. It’s a typical coastal-style house with an open floor plan, generic finishings, and expensive taste that lacks taste. From the marble bathroom, to the chandelier above the master bed, it’s all too gaudy for me, which of course makes me hate this current state of living even more.

I throw on the bathtub jets and toss a bath bomb into the shallow water. As it foams with purples and pinks—a present from Ryot—I strip down and then brush my hair out only to pin it to the top of my head so it doesn’t get wet. When the tub is ready, I shut off the faucet, keep the jets moving, and then slip in.

My body instantly relaxes as I soak all the way up to my neck.

With nothing to do, I flick at the bubbles on the top of the water and wonder—what the hell am I going to do with my life?

I’m not happy. Quite depressed, actually.

Before we moved to California, I had a job, a social life, and purpose. But here, I feel like I’m just . . . I’m just Ryot’s wife. And although I do take pride in marrying the man, I know I need more than this. I need him to listen to me and see me like he used to. I’ve told him how I feel, how sad I feel, how I need him to listen to me, but . . . he just hasn’t.

I hear a pair of shoes hit the floor as I look up toward the bathroom entrance to find Ryot undressing. His suit jacket is off, his vest is gaping, and he’s working on the last buttons of his dress shirt. His tan, carved skin peeks through, and even though I’m angry with him, I can’t help but stare at my husband.

Since he left baseball, he hasn’t given up on his routine, and sure, it might annoy me at times—why can’t the man just eat a donut—but he looks amazing. Sexy. Irresistible.

“Thank you for dinner, babe.”

“You ate that quick.”

“I was starving.” He sheds out of his dress shirt, and my eyes fall on his impeccable chest. He removes the watch I got him a few Christmases ago and sets it on the bathroom countertop next to his cologne that smells like absolute sin. When he turns back toward me, he says, “I’m sorry I let you down tonight. I know an apology means nothing, and my actions speak louder, but I need you to know I truly am sorry.”

I can’t look at him out of fear I might cry, so I play with the bubbles. “Thanks.”

“Want to tell me what you did today?” he asks as he takes a seat on the side of the tub.

Since he seems focused, I say, “Not much. Went for a long walk around the neighborhood. Went grocery shopping, did the laundry.” I shrug. “Worked on some mock designs of a hotel lobby for fun. I have this idea—”

“I saw one of those mammoth dogs on my run this morning,” he says, making me wonder if he actually listened all the way to the end of my answer or was already absorbed in his own day again.

He leans forward and lifts my chin so he can press a soft kiss to my lips.

And because I can’t seem to keep myself away from him, I sink into his mouth as he slips his hand behind my head and filters into my hair.

Our kiss grows heavier, stronger, and more intense with every breath. Before I know what’s happening, I’m rising from the water and undoing his pants.

He slips out of them and pulls me from the tub then lays me on the bath rug, where he spreads my legs and slips his delicious cock inside me.

I cling to him like he’s a lifesaver, helping me stay afloat, yet . . . he’s also the thing drowning me.

And with every pulse of his hips, I think to myself, why doesn’t he see me like he used to?

Why can’t he be the man I once knew and fell in love with?

Why can’t our life be like it used to be several months ago when we were the only things that mattered in each other’s lives?

Why can’t I see myself lasting here even when I once thought Ryot’s love was all I needed to feel complete?

 

***

 

**RYOT**

 

Four weeks later . . .

 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Myla?” I shout as I shut the garage door behind me and toss my keys on the kitchen counter.

“Wrong with me?” she asks, spinning around to face me. Her piercing blue eyes slice right through me. “If you don’t know the answer to that question, then I can’t help you.” She takes off toward the stairs.

I follow.

“I don’t know the fucking answer. I can’t read your goddamn mind.”

Fresh from my good friend JP’s engagement party, where I had to deal with her cold shoulder and tight-lipped attitude, followed by a magnificent display of the silent treatment in the car, I’ve just about had it.

Myla pauses at the top of the stairs and says, “Then I can’t help you.” She spins back around and heads into our bedroom.

I’m going to have a fucking coronary.

Charging up the rest of the stairs, I plow into the bedroom, where Myla is slipping off her dress. “Uh, excuse me, a little privacy, please?”

Through a clenched jaw, I say, “You’re my goddamn wife. There is no such thing as privacy.”

“What rulebook are you reading? Peeping Tom, Edition One?”

“Enough with the sarcasm, Myla.” I tug on my hair, my patience nonexistent at this point. “Just tell me what the fuck I did that has put you in this shit mood.”

“Like I said, if you don’t know—”

I grip her wrist and spin her toward me. Only in her bra and underwear, her body presses against mine. I wrap my arm around her waist.

“Now, Myla, we can do this the hard way or the easy way.”

She rolls her eyes. “What are you going to do, Ryot? Fuck it out of me? Pretty sure we’ve figured out that sex doesn’t get us anywhere in our arguments.”

Realizing this might be more serious than I first assumed, which was some way I’ve annoyed her again, I say, “Then tell me what I can do. Tell me what the hell is going on so I can fix it.”

“Why do you even care?” she asks as she presses her hand against my chest and attempts to get away.

“Why do I care? Uh, because you’re my goddamn wife, because I love you, and because I don’t want to live in this constant state of anger that we’ve been living in. Hell, Myla, it’s been a month of this cold shoulder bullshit.” Off and on. More angry days than not.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. Ever since we moved out to California, you haven’t been yourself.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?” Her expression morphs into disbelief. “Are you really going to blame me?”

“No, Jesus. I’m just trying to have a conversation.”

She pushes away from me and steps toward the bathroom. “Yeah, well, communication has never been our strong suit, now, has it?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me,” I say. “You won’t communicate with me. You just shut down. And when I do try to have a conversation, you turn everything into sex.”

“Haven’t heard you complain about the orgasms,” she says as she strips out of her bra and underwear, leaving her completely naked.

Yeah, I’d never complain about the orgasms because our sex life has always been fucking incredible. So if she wants to fuck, I’m naked in seconds.

From the hook near her vanity, she grabs her short silk robe and slips it on.

While she starts her nighttime routine of putting her hair in a bun secured by a silk scrunchie and washing her face, I move toward the doorframe and lean on the wood, watching her.

In a soft, steady voice, I say, “Just tell me what I fucking did, Myla. I don’t want to fight with you.”

Her shoulders roll in, and she drops her hands to the counter as she uses the mirror to look at me. Her eyes are tired with bags resting under them. Her face is thinner than normal, and so is her body. Normally curvy, with delicious thighs that I love gripping on to, she seems more . . . fragile and, right now, there’s only intense animosity. Toward me. “Do I look happy, Ryot?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “You don’t.”

Something isn’t right. This isn’t just a fight. There seems to be something deeper happening.

“Because I’m not.” She turns now to face me and leans against the counter, her posture no longer snide but defeated, as if she can’t take this back and forth anymore, and she’s throwing up the white flag. “I haven’t been happy for a while.”

I swallow hard. I’ve noticed a change, but I thought that maybe she was taking a second to adjust to our new house, our new life.

“Happy with me?” I ask.

“Happy with my life,” she says with a sigh.

“What does that mean?” My heart trembles in my chest.

“I haven’t been happy for months now, and I thought . . .” She pauses, her voice catching in her throat. “I thought that maybe it would get better. That we would get better. But we’re not.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my throat growing tight. “Babe, we’ve been fine. We made love this morning.”

“No, we fucked, Ryot. Fucking has never been an issue between us. But fucking isn’t going to make me happy. You can fuck me all you want, but at the end of the day, it won’t put a smile on my face.”

“Then what will?”

“A healthy marriage, and that’s not what we have.” Pulse thundering, I try to steady my shaking legs. “We are anything but healthy.” Her head drops forward as she grips the counter behind her. That ominous, doomsday feeling falls over me. She’s avoiding eye contact with me. The air around us stills as the tension grows thick and muddy. She quietly says, “I want a divorce.”

The room spins around me in slow motion, squeezing the air from my lungs in one fell swoop, leaving me gasping.

“What . . . what did you just say?” I can barely hear my own voice over the hammering of my heart. My mind whirls, trips, tumbles, and struggles to comprehend the words that came out of her mouth. There’s no way.

Did she really say divorce? She couldn’t have . . . right?

When her gaze lifts to mine, her mouth thins, and with no expression in her eyes, she repeats, “I want a divorce.” She opens one of her vanity drawers and pulls out a yellow envelope and sets it on the countertop.

“What the fuck is that?”

Still dead in her eyes, she says, “Divorce papers. I had them drawn up last week. I’m asking for absolutely nothing. I don’t want your money—”

“Our fucking money,” I say.

“It’s your money, Ryot. You’re the one who played in the Major Leagues, and you’re the one who cashed in on the endorsements, so that’s your money, not mine. And I’m not about to sit here and argue with you about it. I don’t fucking want it. All I ask is to keep my car and half of the sale from the house in Chicago since I’m the one who did the renovations.”

“Hold the fuck on for a second,” I say, trying to wrap my head around all of this. “You want a divorce?”

“Yes. Everything is done. You just need your lawyer to look it over and then sign it.” Everything is done? When did she start?

“The fuck I will,” I say, moving closer to her. “I’m not about to sign divorce papers without knowing where all this is coming from. I love you, Myla—”

“Don’t, Ryot. Don’t say that shit when you don’t mean it.”

“Of course I mean it!” I shout. “Don’t fucking tell me how I feel.”

“If you loved me, then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Maybe if you talked to me—”

“I did,” she yells. “Several times, Ryot. You haven’t been paying attention. You’ve been so focused on life after baseball and how you can satisfy your drive to be successful. Meanwhile, you’ve forgotten about me. You’ve forgotten about our life. You’ve forgotten your promises, and no amount of communication will take away the bitterness I have toward you for that.” She pushes off the sink and blows past me.

“Myla, wait—”

“Sign the papers, Ryot. End this for us, so we can both move on.”

And then she’s out of the bedroom and halfway out of my life.

 

***

 

“Wow, you look like absolute shit,” Banner says as he sits across from me at Café Lola with coffees in hand for both of us.

After Myla retreated from the bathroom, I tried to coax her to talk to me, but she shut down once again. Last night was the first time we chose to sleep apart since we were married. When I woke up this morning, the divorce papers were on her pillow with a note that said, “Sign them today.”

I tossed them to the floor and told Banner to meet me in half an hour.

With my thumb and index finger, I rub my tension-filled brow. “Myla asked for a divorce last night.”

Cup midway to his mouth, Banner pauses. “What the actual fuck? Is this some sort of prank?”

“Why the hell would I joke about this?” I slouch in my chair.

“Fuck, I don’t know. Why?”

I slowly shake my head.

You haven’t been paying attention. You’ve been so focused on life after baseball and how you can satisfy your drive to be successful. Meanwhile, you’ve forgotten about me. You’ve forgotten about our life. You’ve forgotten your promises, and no amount of communication will take away the bitterness I have toward you for that.

“She wouldn’t talk about it. All I really know is that she’s very unhappy and has been for a while. She gave me the divorce papers and then slept in the guest room.” Loneliest night of my life.

“Jesus. I’m sorry, man. Are you going to sign—”

“No,” I shout and then quiet my voice when I’m snapped back into reality. There are people around us. I don’t need them listening in on my private conversation. “I don’t want a divorce.” A divorce would fucking break me. Losing Myla would break me.

“Did you tell her that?”

“I mean, I think I made it pretty clear. I tried to tell her I loved her, and she immediately shot me down.”

“Dude.” Banner rubs the back of his neck. “Fuck. I did not see this coming.”

“I had no fucking clue either. What do I do?” I ask. “I knew she was acting weird, but a divorce? That’s the last thing I expected. Have I really been that busy, that blind to the situation?”

“I don’t know, man . . . maybe . . .” Banner shrugs just as I spot someone approaching us.

“Did the meeting start without me, boys?”

Penn Cutler.

One of my best friends and former teammates and the reason I came up with the idea of The Jock Report. It’s the reason we moved to California and probably why I’ve been so blind to what’s been going on with my home life.

Just to splash you with some quick backstory—boring I know, but it’s needed—Penn and I played with the Chicago Bobbies a few years back. I tore my rotator cuff and couldn’t recover despite my many attempts, and Penn . . . well, his haunted past drove him off the pitcher’s mound. A former alcoholic who attended rehab during the off-season, he was picked apart by the media, season after season. One bad game and they assumed he was back to drinking. It got to the point where the Bobbies couldn’t manage the press anymore, so Penn cut ties with them before they could cut ties with him. And that was how his career ended.

It was so fucking unfair to be pushed out of his sport for a past that he cleaned up, so I came up with the idea of The Jock Report, a social media website run by the athletes where they have their own voice, can tell their own stories, and can interact with fans. It’s been a billion-dollar idea, and with the help of my brainiac brother and investment from Cane Enterprises, we’ve been able to shoot up to the top-selling app in the world. Together, Penn, Banner, and I moved to Los Angeles, where we opened an office and now manage over fifty employees. This all happened within a few months. Yeah, that fucking fast.

Turning to Banner, I say, “You invited him?”

“I thought it was a business meeting,” Banner says while cringing.

Penn pulls out a chair, then spins it around so he’s sitting on it backward. “What’s going on?”

Sighing heavily, I say, “Please don’t make a big fucking deal about this . . .”

“Why not?” Banner asks. “It’s a huge fucking deal.”

“What’s a big deal?” Penn looks back and forth between us.

Pushing my hair, I say, “Myla asked for a divorce last night.”

Penn’s brow creases. “No, she fucking didn’t.”

“Yes, she did,” I reply before lifting my coffee to my lips. “She had papers drawn up and everything.”

“Why the hell does she want a divorce?”

Banner pipes up, “She’s not happy.”

“Well, yeah, I could have told you that. She hasn’t been herself for a while. That quick wit of hers has faded, but I just assumed she was going through something. A divorce? Has she talked to you about it at all?”

“No,” I answer while setting my coffee back down. “This came out of nowhere. She was acting weird last night, very cold, and I called her out on it when we got home. That’s when she laid into me.” I scrub my hand over my face. “Fuck, I don’t know how to handle this with all the other shit right now. The business taking off at a rapid rate, the move . . . JP’s goddamn wedding, which is now in three weeks. I don’t know what to fucking do.” I can’t lose her, but is it right to hold her back from happiness if she’s so unhappy with me? “I mean . . . do I sign?”

“Do you want to sign?” Banner asks.

“No, but . . . I don’t want to force her to be with me either. Especially if she’s not happy.”

“So you’re just going to give up?” Penn asks. “Dude, we’re talking about Myla here.”

Yeah . . . Myla . . .

The girl who captured me the moment she commented on my Instagram post.

The girl with the most unique sense of humor.

The girl who has made me feel whole, as if before I met her I was missing something in my life. She came along and changed everything.

“I don’t know what to do. She’s shut down. I could see it in her eyes last night. She had the same look when her dad passed away and she broke up with me. She’s not open to solving problems. She just wants out, an escape.”

Banner pulls on his hair. “How did you win her back after she broke up with you? I can’t remember how that all went down.”

“She had to attend a meeting with her mom and dad’s lawyer alone, so she asked me to pretend we were still together until after,” I answer. “But I made a last-ditch effort to show her that she didn’t need to lose me just because she lost her dad. She kissed me in the car after the meeting, and I knew we’d be okay.”

“And you think this situation is similar?” Banner asks.

“Slightly, but this time, I truly don’t understand where this is coming from. I don’t know what triggered this or caused this line of thinking, so I don’t feel optimistic about fixing it.”

“Well, you gotta try, man,” Penn says. “This is your forever girl.” He pauses as if an idea has struck him. “You know, JP’s wedding is in three weeks. Why don’t you treat that event like what happened with the reading of the will?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He shifts on his chair and says, “Tell her you will give her the divorce—”

“But I don’t want a divorce.”

“I understand that. But she’s going to be angry with you if you don’t go along with what she wants, which will put her on the defensive. So maybe if you tell her you’re going to grant her wishes, she’ll be more receptive to your idea.”

“And what exactly is my idea?” I ask.

“Tell her you will give her what she wants, but in exchange, she needs to pretend to be with you for JP’s wedding because you don’t want to stir up drama for your friend before they get married. I’m sure she’ll say yes, so then that buys you some time. You can be there for her and hopefully get to the root of the problem while she ‘pretends’ to help you by staying married.”

“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea,” Banner says, perking up. “Shit, you should be glad I invited him.”

I hate to admit it, but Banner is right. It’s not that bad of an idea.

I scratch the side of my face. “But that’s three weeks. I don’t think she’ll buy it.”

“That’s why you need to act like you’re giving her what she wants,” Penn says. “Don’t pressure her, don’t try to win her back, but rather . . . observe. Learn. Figure out how you can fix this.”

“Yes,” Banner adds while lightly knocking the table. “She lowers her defenses when she doesn’t feel threatened. If she believes you’re giving her what she wants, if you’re indifferent to the whole thing, then hopefully, she’ll relax and open up a bit more. You know that’s how she works, man. Think about her past. She’s scarred from people leaving her life constantly—from her parents’ marriage, and from being bullied most of her childhood. She doesn’t process her feelings normally, so if you back off and let her believe you’re giving her what she wants, then maybe she’ll concede something, and you’ll get to the root of the problem.”

I think it over and know Banner is right. Her troubled past has bitten me in the ass several times throughout our life together. I’ve been more than happy to work through it with her, but I’ve only been able to navigate through it once I get her to open up. This is no exception, though the stakes are much higher. I can’t lose Myla. I love her. She’s my whole world.

“So what does this have to do with the wedding?” I ask.

Penn places his phone on the table and pulls up his drawing app. He makes a line across the screen and then puts an X at the end. “This is the wedding week.” He makes a slash on the other end. “This is you, now.” He makes two marks between. “This is the time you get her to think you don’t care anymore. She wants a divorce, fine, here’s the divorce.” He circles the X. “And this is the time when you ‘fake’ being a happy couple still. This is when you make your move. This is when you show her how good you are together, how much you appreciate her. This is when you woo her and take all the things you observed over the past two weeks and lay it down.” Banner slow claps.

“This is brilliant.” No. It’s horrible. Why the hell would I try to convince my wife that I don’t love her anymore? Wouldn’t that be the final nail in the coffin that is our marriage? And hurt Myla even more than I have done?

“You don’t think it’s a bit extreme? Shouldn’t I just be able to talk to her about this?”

“This is Myla we’re talking about,” Banner says. “She doesn’t operate on the same wavelength as others. When she’s hurt, she feels that hurt down to her bones. You might want to solve this like two mature adults looking for a solution, but Myla doesn’t work like that.”

Penn swats my shoulder. “And who’s to say this is actually what she wants? This could be a knee-jerk reaction.”

“Divorce is a bit extreme for a knee-jerk reaction,” I say. “She might be walking to the beat of her own drum, but she wouldn’t do anything this harsh just for the hell of it.”

“Which is why this plan will work.” Penn taps his phone.

“I don’t know.” I waver back and forth.

“What do you have to lose?” Banner asks. “Your wife? Well, man, you’re already halfway there.”

“Trust me, this will work,” Penn says with unbridled confidence.

I lean back in my chair and let out a large sigh. It’s frightening that I’m even considering this plan, given the absurdity of it, but then again, I don’t think I have many options.

They’re right. If I tell her I’ll give her a divorce, she won’t be so defensive.

She may be more open to talking to me when she’s not defensive.

When she’s open to talking, that’s when I’ll figure out what’s going on.

This should work . . . right?

Only one way to find out.

“Okay . . . I’ll do it.”

“Thatta boy.” Penn slaps me on the shoulder. “Aren’t you excited? You have a plan.”

“Yeah, maybe . . .” I twist my coffee cup. “But . . .” I sigh. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“Oh, wasn’t expecting that,” Banner says as he props his arm on the table. “Why are you pissed?”

“Because.” I look up at both of them. “Out of everything Myla and I have been through, rather than trying to save our marriage, she’s throwing it away.” She’s thought about this for a long time if she’s already seen a lawyer, discussed the split of assets, and had the papers drawn up. As if I mean nothing to her at all. “This is how she wants to end it?” I shake my head. “It’s fucking bullshit.”

Banner winces. “Yeah, good idea, get that out now because I don’t think going back to the house with that sort of attitude will help the situation.”

Grumbling to myself, I stand from my chair. “I’m out.”

“Wait, why? You’re still angry. Sit down and work through it.”

“It’s only going to make me angrier. I just need to get this conversation with Myla over with and then go from there.”

Penn steadies his hand against my stomach, stopping me from my retreat. “Dude, I think it’s in your best interest to just take a second. I know you’re hurt and frustrated, and this doesn’t seem fair. I’m sure this plan is not how you want to handle things, but this could give you the time you need to fix things. So just sit down and talk out the feelings. You don’t want to do something stupid when you get back home . . . like piss her off even more.”

“Too late for that,” I say as I push past Penn and head out to my car.