It Starts with Us by 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.