It Starts with Us by Colleen Hoover

“Everything would be so much easier if we could just…” Ryle pauses, maybe
to think about the words he’s about to say. The words I don’t want to hear.
“Stop,” I whisper, preventing him from finishing.
He doesn’t complete his thought, but he also doesn’t back away. If
anything, it feels like he moves even closer. I’ve done nothing in the past that
would make him think it’s okay to move in on me like this. I do nothing that
gives him hope for us other than foster a civil coparenting relationship. He’s
the one always trying to push my boundaries and straddle the line of what
I’m okay with, and I’m honestly tired of it.
“What if I’ve changed?” he asks. “Really changed?” His eyes are full of a
mixture of sincerity and sorrow.
It does nothing for me. Absolutely nothing. “I don’t care if you’ve
changed, Ryle. I hope you have. But it’s not my responsibility to test that
theory.”
Those words hit him hard. I see it when he has to take a moment to
swallow whatever unkind response he knows he shouldn’t give me right now.
He stops talking, stops looking at me, stops hovering.
He huffs, frustrated, and then backs away and makes his way toward the
stairs, hopefully to his own apartment. He slams the door shut behind him.
I don’t immediately follow, for obvious reasons. I need space. I need to
process.
This isn’t the first time he’s asked me what we’re doing—like our divorce
is some long game I’m playing. Sometimes he’ll say it in passing, sometimes
in a text. Sometimes he makes it a joke. But every time he suggests how
senseless our divorce is, I recognize it for what it is. A manipulation tactic.
He thinks if he treats our divorce like we’re being silly, I’ll eventually agree
with him and take him back.
His life would be easier if I took him back. Allysa’s and Marshall’s lives
might even be made easier by it, because they wouldn’t have to dance around
our divorce and their relationship with him.
But my life wouldn’t be easier. There’s nothing easy about fearing for
your safety any time you make a misstep.
Emerson’s life wouldn’t be easier. I’ve lived her life. There’s nothing easy
about living in that kind of household.
I wait for my anger to dissipate before heading back downstairs, but it
doesn’t. It just builds and builds with every step I descend. I feel like the
reaction I’m having is too big for what just happened, or maybe that’s just