And then there’s that splinter of fear that creeps into my conscience when Ryle says something to suggest our divorce was a mistake. Because sometimes I do wonder if my life wouldn’t be so overwhelming if I still had a husband who shared some of the burdens of raising his child. And sometimes I wonder if I’m overreacting by not allowing my daughter to have overnights with her own father. Relationships and custody agreements don’t come with a blueprint, unfortunately.

I don’t know if every move I make is the right one, but I’m doing my best. I don’t need his manipulation and gaslighting on top of that.

I wish I were at home; I would walk straight to my jewelry box and pull out the list of reminders. I should take a picture of it so I always have it on my phone in the future. I definitely underestimate how difficult and confusing interactions with Ryle can be.

How do people leave these cycles when they don’t have the resources I had or the support from their friends and family? How do they possibly stay strong enough every second of the day? I feel like all it takes is one weak, insecure moment in the presence of your ex to convince yourself you made the wrong decision.

Anyone who has ever left a manipulative, abusive spouse and somehow stayed that course deserves a medal. A statue. A freaking superhero movie.

Society has obviously been worshipping the wrong heroes this whole time because I’m convinced it takes less strength to pick up a building than it does to permanently leave an abusive situation.

I’m still crying a few minutes later when I hear Allysa’s door open. I look up to find Marshall exiting the apartment carrying two bags of trash. He pauses when he sees me sitting on the floor.

“Oh.” His eyes dart around, as if he’s hoping someone else will help me. Not that I need help. I just needed a moment of respite.

Marshall sets the bags on the floor and walks over. He takes a seat across from me and stretches out his legs. He scratches uncomfortably at his knee. “I’m not sure what to say. I’m not good at this.”

His discomfort makes me laugh through my tears. I toss up a frustrated hand. “I’m fine. I just need to cry sometimes when Ryle and I fight.”

Marshall pulls up a leg like he’s about to stand up and go after Ryle. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. No, he was fairly calm.”

Marshall relaxes back to the floor, and I don’t know why, maybe it’s because he’s the unlucky one in front of me right now, but I unload all my thoughts on him.

“I think that’s the problem—that he actually had a right to be mad at me this time, and he was relatively calm about it. Sometimes we can argue, and it doesn’t lead to anything more than a disagreement. And when that happens, I start to question whether I overreacted by asking for a divorce. I mean, I know I didn’t overreact. I know I didn’t. But he has this way of planting seeds of doubt in me, like maybe things could have gotten better if I just gave him more time to work on himself.” I feel bad that I’m laying all this on Marshall. It’s not fair to him because Ryle is his best friend. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your issue.”

“Allysa cheated on me.”

Marshall’s words stun me silent for a good five seconds. “Wh-what?”

“It was a long time ago. We worked through it, but dammit, it hurt like hell. She broke my heart.”

I’m shaking my head in an attempt to process this information. He keeps talking, though, so I try to keep up.

“We weren’t in a good place. We were going to different colleges and trying to make long distance work, and we were young. And it wasn’t even anything big. She had a drunk make-out with some guy at a party before she remembered how amazing I am. But when she told me… I’ve never been so angry in my life. Nothing had ever cut me like that did. I wanted to retaliate: I wanted to cheat on her, so she’d know how it felt; I wanted to slash her tires and max out her credit cards and burn all her clothes. But no matter how mad I was, when she was standing right in front of me, I never, not for one second, thought about physically hurting her. If anything, I just wanted to hug her and cry on her shoulder.”

Marshall looks at me with sincerity. “When I think about Ryle hitting you… I get absurdly angry. Because I love him. I do. He’s been my best friend since we were kids. But I also hate him for not being better. Nothing you have done and nothing you could do would excuse any man’s hands on you out of anger. Remember that, Lily. You made the right choice by leaving that situation. You should never feel guilty for that. Pride is the only thing you should feel.”

I had no idea how heavily any of this was weighing on me, but Marshall’s words lift so much weight off me, I feel like I could float.

I’m not sure those words could mean more coming from anyone else. There’s something about getting validation from someone who loves Ryle like a brother that’s reaffirming. Empowering.

“You’re wrong, Marshall. You’re pretty damn good at this.”

Marshall smiles and then helps me to my feet. He picks up his trash bags and I head back inside their apartment to find my daughter and hug her so tight.

Chapter Thirteen Atlas

It’s amazing how a night can go from being something I’ve been hoping would happen for years, to something I’ve been dreading would happen for years.

If I hadn’t received that text just as I was dropping off Lily, I absolutely would have kissed her. But I want our first kiss as adults to be free from distraction.

The text was from Darin, informing me that my mother is at Bib’s. I didn’t tell Lily about the text because I hadn’t yet told her my mother was attempting to work her way back into my life. And then as soon as I told her about my mother calling me, I regretted it. The date was going so well, and I was risking that by ending it on such a somber note.

I didn’t text Darin back because I didn’t want to interrupt my time with Lily. But even after the date ended and we drove away in separate cars, I still didn’t text Darin back. I drove around for half an hour trying to figure out what to do.

I’m hoping my mother got tired of waiting for me. I took my time arriving back to the restaurant, but I’m here now, and I guess I need to confront this. She seems adamant about speaking with me.

I park in the alley behind Bib’s so that I can go through the back door in case she’s waiting in the restaurant lobby, or at a table. I’m not sure she would recognize me if she saw me, but I’d rather have the advantage by approaching her on my terms.

Darin notices me enter through the back door and immediately makes his way over.

“You get my text?”

I nod and remove my coat. “I did. Is she still here?”

“Yeah, she insisted on waiting. I sat her at table eight.”

“Thanks.”

Darin looks at me cautiously. “Maybe I’m overstepping, but… I swear you said your mother was dead.”

That almost makes me laugh. “I never said dead. I said she was gone. There’s a difference.”

“I can tell her you aren’t coming in tonight.” He must sense the storm brewing.

“It’s okay. I have a feeling she isn’t going away until I talk to her.”

Darin nods and then spins to head back to his station in the kitchen.

I’m glad he’s not asking too many questions, since I have no idea why she’s here, or who she even is now. She probably wants money. Hell, I’d give it to her if it means I don’t have to deal with her calling or showing up again.

I should prepare for that outcome. I go to my office and grab a handful of cash out of the safe and then I make my way through the kitchen doors, out into the restaurant. I hesitate before glancing at table eight.

When I do, I’m relieved to see her back is to me.

I calm myself with a deep breath and then I make my way over to her. I don’t want to have to hug her or fake niceties, so I let no time lag between us making eye contact and me taking a seat directly across from her.

She has the same unaffected expression she’s always had when she looks across the table at me. There’s a small frown playing at the corner of her mouth, but it’s always there. She’s constantly, albeit inadvertently, frowning.

She looks worn. It’s only been about thirteen or so years since I’ve seen her last, but there are decades’ worth of new lines that have formed around her eyes and mouth.

She takes me in for a moment. I know I look vastly different from the last time she saw me, but she makes no indication that she’s surprised by that. She’s completely stoic, as if I’m the one who should speak first. I don’t.

“Is this all yours?” she finally asks, waving a hand around the restaurant.

I nod.