Booktree.ngIt-Starts-with-Us-Colleen-Hoover

Here comes the gaslighting. He’s attempting to make me feel crazy for
being scared, even though my fear is more than warranted. I stare at him for
a moment, wondering if the argument is over or if he has more to say. I
want it to be over, so I open the door to the stairwell.
“Lily, wait.”
I pause because his voice is much calmer, which leads me to believe he
might be capable of a verbal disagreement rather than an explosive fight
tonight. He walks back over to me with a pained expression. “I’m sorry.
You know how I feel about anything related to him.”
I do know, which is precisely why I’ve had such conflicting feelings
about Atlas potentially being a part of my life again. The simple idea of
having to confront Ryle with that information makes me want to vomit.
Especially now.
“It upset me to find out that our daughter’s middle name might have
been something you chose to deliberately hurt me. You can’t expect
something like that not to affect me.”
I lean against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “It had nothing
to do with you or Atlas and everything to do with me. I swear.” Just
mentioning Atlas’s name out loud seems to get it stuck in the air between
us, like it’s a tangible thing Ryle can reach out and punch.
Ryle nods once with a tight expression, but it appears that he accepts that
answer. I honestly don’t know if he should. Maybe I did do it
subconsciously to hurt him. I don’t even know at this point. His anger is
making me question my intentions.
This all feels so grossly familiar.
We’re both quiet for a while. I just want to go to Emerson, but Ryle
seems to have more to say, because he moves closer, placing a hand on the
wall beside my head. I’m relieved that he doesn’t look angry anymore, but
I’m not sure I like the look in his eye that has replaced the anger. It’s not the
first time he’s looked at me this way since our separation.
I feel my entire body stiffen at his gradual change in demeanor. He
moves a couple of inches closer, too close, and dips his head.
“Lily,” he says, his voice a scratchy whisper. “What are we doing?”
I don’t respond to him because I’m not sure why he’s asking that. We’re
having a conversation. One he started.
He lifts a hand, fingering the collar of my jumpsuit, which is peeking out
beneath my coat. When he sighs, his breath moves through my hair.