It Starts with Us by Colleen Hoover

stairwell. I take a nervous step back. I slip my hand in my pocket in search of
my phone in case I need to use it.
“We’re changing her middle name,” he says.
I keep my voice firm and steady when I respond. “We named her Emerson
after your brother. That’s your connection to her name. Her middle name is
my connection. It’s only fair. You’re reading too much into it.”
I try to sidestep around him, but he moves with me.
I glance over my shoulder to measure the distance between myself and the
ledge. Not that I feel like he’d throw me over it, but I also didn’t think he’d
be capable of shoving me down a flight of stairs.
“Does he know?” Ryle asks.
He doesn’t have to say Atlas’s name for me to know exactly who he’s
talking about. I feel the guilt swallowing me, and I’m worried Ryle can sense
it.
Atlas does know Emerson’s middle name is Dory, because I made it a
point to tell him. But I honestly didn’t name my daughter for Atlas. I named
her for me. Dory was my favorite character before I even knew Atlas
Corrigan existed. I admired her strength, and I only named her that because
strength is the one trait I hope my daughter has more than anything else.
But Ryle’s reaction is making me want to apologize, because Finding
Nemo does mean something to both Atlas and me, and I knew it when I ran
after Atlas on the street to tell him about her middle name.
Maybe Ryle deserves to be angry.
Therein lies our issue, though. Ryle can be angry, but that doesn’t mean I
deserve everything that accompanies his anger. I’m falling back into that
same trap of forgetting that nothing I could do would warrant his extreme
past reactions.
I may not be perfect, but I don’t deserve to fear for my life every time I
make a mistake. And this may have been a mistake that deserves more
discussion, but I don’t feel comfortable having a conversation about it with
Ryle on a rooftop without witnesses.
“You’re making me nervous. Can we please go back downstairs?”
Ryle’s entire demeanor changes as soon as I say that. It’s like he punctures
against the sharp insult. “Lily, come on.” He moves away from the door and
walks all the way to the other side of the balcony. “We’re arguing. People
argue. Christ.” He spins away from me, giving me his back now.