Yield

1. Max

I send the text message and look out the windshield of my Ford F-150 at the green wreath laced in pastel ribbon hanging from Ryke’s front door. Sweat adheres my rosy-pale skin to the leather steering wheel.

What am I doing here?

He downplayed it. This is not what he told me his house looked like. It’s nicer. So much nicer.

He said it was a small gray ranch as if it was bland and easily looked past. He failed to mention the bed full of brightly colored flowers—I didn’t take him for the gardening type—and a driveway wide enough for two cars, along with every house in this neighborhood being strikingly cared for with groomed lawns of perfect diagonal lines.

Is this an HOA thing? Do they all share the same landscaper? You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dor—Virginia, Max.

Montross—where I spent my entire life—is far from a crummy town, besides everyone knowing who you are. I guess with Ryke living this close to the city, I pictured less of a small-town feel from his neighborhood. It’s not the same. The best part—I’m not the orphan girl who married Colson Warren here. His family is going to bury my name when they find out I left him.

Shit, I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be. I never am, but this is so weird.

Was it a mistake coming here? I should have gone to Amber’s. She’s fed up with the rollercoaster ride that I live on…and maybe that’s why I didn’t call her first. My best friend is more than willing to offer me a warm bed and shit-talk my husband. Then proceed to roll her eyes when I run back into his arms. That’s not Ryke.

Knots take my stomach as I look back at my phone. It’s clipped into the holder above the dash with the text message marked read.

The front door opens halfway and a figure shuffles in the shadow, putting their shoes on. It’s him. Of course, it’s him.

I turn the key in the ignition, shutting the engine off. An instant heat pours through my body and flushes my cheeks.

Get out of the car, Max.

My pits are raining sweat. This is gross and now I’ll uncomfortably squeeze my arms tight to my body till I can get away from him and change so he doesn’t catch a glimpse of the waterfalls cascading down both sides of my underarms.

Stop.Don’t be stupid. This is Ryke. My free-spirit friend.

I stick my nose to my shoulder, making sure my deodorant is still working. Okay. Good. French vanilla. At least I don’t stink.

Ryke may be my judgment-free zone, but hell if I don’t feel ashamed for failing at marriage and showing up on his doorstep like a broken-winged pigeon. Shaking my clammy hands out, I open the door. I plant my worn-out Vans on the asphalt and tug at the hem of my The Glorious Sons, retro-style t-shirt.

Holy peanut butter and jelly and gray flipping sweatpants. Mom brain meets smutty thoughts, and I will unquestionably pretend I didn’t glance down at my friend’s package. We both know what he does for a living. No need to stare.

“Nice slippers,” I call as he approaches. His shoulders are back and his head is held high. Always sure of himself.

Up until six weeks ago, Ryke Onak’s looks were a mystery. His face, anyway. He’s as handsome as he was an hour outside of my hometown—on business or pleasure, he wouldn’t say—when we met for lunch for the first time. For someone who doesn’t make bank off his face, everything from the slight arch shape of his brows to the center-parted waves that touch his cheekbones look like intentional choices. The only reason he has for hiding it behind a mask is to keep his identity private.

Melody or Lauren would never get my confession, and hell would freeze over before I would give Amber the satisfaction of proving that being five months older than me gives her big sister privileges to wave a finger when I make a rash decision. Best friends since the sixth grade, they judge me appropriately. They’ll be happy to know his background check showed limited evidence that he’s an ax murderer. The way Amber devours Crime Time, she would have plenty to say. The least she could do is give me credit for doing some research before driving close to four hours out of state and letting them know my location.

Ryke is a mystery that I have an undeniable urge to crack and it’s been this way since the first day he contacted me inquiring pricing to develop his website. It was just business until it wasn’t. Our long-distance friendship goes back farther than six weeks. Melody has batted her lashes, insisting that male-female friendships aren’t possible, over and again. And I always correct her that I’ve been friends with Andy and Timmy longer than I’ve been with Cole.

“How was the drive?”

“Anxiety ridden.” The words come out jokingly.

I open the rear driver’s side door and pull my suitcase from the seat, setting it on the ground. My black and white floral messenger bag—that holds my laptop—lies on the floor. I need that too. Oh, and my purse.

“Traffic that bad?” he asks, reaching for the black handle of my pink Away carry-on. A very adult purchase—that I’m still proud of—I bought for my first and last cruise, four years ago. If sea sickness was a lasting impression, I’d have experienced it for the next four months. Sweet Pea, Riley Cate, made her debut not even nine months later.

I close the door and step on the Nerf bar below the driver’s door. Lying across the seat on my stomach, I kick my foot out as I reach for the tawny purse from the passenger side. The smallest bag of the three and the oldest, with the longest black leather strap in my mismatched travel collection.

“No,” I answer, pulling the strap over my head, crossbody. “I mean…” Closing the door, I adjust my messenger bag. “There were a few spots that were a little congested, but it wasn’t horrible. It’s all of this, you know.“ I swallow. Our eyes connect and I glance down at my suitcase. “I didn’t plan this. I don’t think anyone does when you walk down the aisle. I’m just still having a hard time accepting it...And I spent a good two miles inhaling cow shit. I was getting concerned that I was gonna have to live in those fumes all weekend. Imagine my shock, city boy.”

Ryke shakes his head, ignoring my exaggeration to reassure me he’s on my side. “Your husband’s an asshole.”

He’s right, but it makes me want to defend Cole. I can call him an asshole all day and night. Nobody else can. I trail behind him as he walks along his dark blue Silverado, edging closer to the door. “How long do you think it will be before I forgive him?”

Ryke steps onto the porch. Facing me, he squints and sucks his lip into his mouth. Something is hidden behind his dark heavy-lidded eyes. I can’t put my finger on it. “You left this time,” he replies and turns back to the door, opening it. He doesn’t know the half of it. I’ve only vented to him twice, yet it was enough to graph the last few years with Cole.

“Yeah, for the weekend. We have to co-exist in the same house till one of us—me—finds a new place.” I follow him inside, scoping the living room. “Plus, I can’t leave Ri longer than three days.”

It’s so…simple. Light gray walls with a huge clock hanging in the center of the room. I like how its face is black and the gold Roman numerals line it. A dark microfiber couch stretches along the wall below it and a TV on a dark wood stand sets directly across with a matching coffee table dividing them. It’s not like my artsy and chaotic—full of color and toddler toys—dwelling.

“You could have brought her with you.”

“He would be pissed if I crossed state lines with her. He would be even more pissed if I brought her here,” I mumble.

“Because I’m a stranger?”

“That and he’ll act like I introduced a boyfriend to our daughter, putting her at risk of heartbreak when it doesn’t work out.”

“Oh shit, that would be a fun part to play. Settle down buddy, I’m not going to take your place…just your fine as fuck woman that you took for granted.”

“Dude, he would bury you. If not physically—with his family’s connections.”

“A big shot in a little town doesn’t stand a chance in the city, peach.”

He leads me straight through the kitchen, toward a connecting hallway. Magnetic rectangles line the top corner of the side of his stainless refrigerator—pictures of his nephews and niece? I try not to smack my bags on anything, shuffling to catch up.

I’m content with imperfections. Ryke, on the other hand, lives in a spotless man castle. It’s not a man cave. It’s an entire castle where nobody’s opinion matters besides his own. Every room is light gray with dark wood furnishings.

“Mi casa, su casa. Enjoy the vacation. That’s the only Spanish I know, by the way, but if you want a Japanese lesson, I’m a patient teacher and I reward with MM’s. Just not the green ones because they’re my favorite.” He stops at the first door, pointing to his left. “Bathroom.”

I nod, follow him to the end door where he walks into the room, and drop my suitcase onto the bed.

“I could use an actual vacation and all the MM’s,” I reply, unloading my arms.

“You say that, but you brought your laptop?” he simpers.

“I never stop working.” My smile twists upside down. “Small business owner problems?”

“That’s one of the reasons you’re so fucking stressed out. I turn my business brain off on the weekends.”

“The clock keeps moving, even when I’m not.” I slip the hair tie from my wrist around my knuckles, pulling my raven locks into a low pony at the base of my neck.

“Two days off wouldn’t kill you.”

Convincing, Ryke. Although I feel like it might actually kill me. Working is how I refrain from having an emotional breakdown. It’s my income and my creative release.

“But you might. Are you sure you’re not a serial killa?“ I taunt, weaving and bobbing my head side to side.

“How do you feel about cages?”

“Eh, now I’m not entirely convinced you’re just a loner, sir.”

“Our souls have known each other for lifetimes.” Here he goes. Loves to tell me this shit and I still don’t know if it’s a joke or if he truly believes in that kinda stuff. “We’ve been working together for how long? I’m not going to cut off that source of income by chopping you into pieces for my favorite homemade potluck stew. I’ll catch a hiker next week,” he adds without so much as a glimmer of humor.

“You chop, I’ll vacuum seal?” I, on the other hand, crack a smile as soon as I finish the sentence.

“See, you came to the right place.” He holds his arms wide. “Dark humor and Johnnie Walker, served with a side of spicy novella, correct? And I’ll do ya even one more solid…I’ll read it to you while you cuddle that Squishmallow I know you packed.”

“Ow-ow, a personal in-house narration? Now, don’t forget to hit those high notes. I want realistic tones for the FMC too. And wait, you have been stalking me? I didn’t tell you about Avery.”

“Fuck, Max, you share that duck on your stories at least once a week with a quote or lyrics. I don’t know. And what’s an FMC?”

“Female main character.” I side-eye him. “Oh boy, I have a lot of teaching to do this weekend and I will find and hide all of your green MM’s if you disrespect my Mallard cuddle Duck.”

“Teach me, master,” he jests, bowing with his hands pressed together. “Show me the way.”

My eyes widen, and a smirk takes my lips.

“God, peach. You’re a fucking perv.” He takes a few steps toward the door, looking at me with the slightest curve at the corner of his mouth. His mocha eyes are lit up with amusement.

“Can’t shut it off. Sorry.” I shrug.

“I paid off my student loans because I couldn’t turn it off,” he smirks. My dirty mind matches his, but Ryke’s source of income from seducing women on the internet is something I could never do.

He hangs in the doorway, pressing his hands against the jamb of each side. “So when are you going to come work for me?”

“Um no. My job is fine,” I reply, sitting on the edge of the twin mattress.

“But wouldn’t being my personal assistant be more fun? You can still run your company and work for me. You have that workaholic thing going for you. I’ll take full advantage.”

“Personal assisting doesn’t sound very creative. My skills are better used for managing your website and social media accounts and giving you tips on how to increase traffic.”

“I don’t want your advice this time.”

I cross my arms over my chest, creasing my brows. “What do you want then, Ryke?”

“I bought a club,” he announces like it’s no big deal.

“Really? That’s kinda awesome.”

I hate that he’s secretive about everything. That’s his personality—reserved and with no desire to tell anyone his business unless it impacts them. He bought a fucking club and casually works it into the conversation. It’s exciting in a way when he peels back the layers, letting me in, but why does he do that? He opened up enough to tell me something intimate that I felt like he hadn’t shared with many people, and it pulled me in, only for him to make it difficult to get any closer. Isn’t that also why I like him? That’s Ryke for ya.

“It’s going to be a while till I can open the doors. That’s where you could help. Advertising graphics and I could use your perspective on the interior art.”

“I see.” I don’t know what to tell him. I have so much on my plate, I can’t even imagine one more change or challenge right now.

“Look, it’s something to think about. No pressure.”

A soft smile tells him I appreciate his offer without letting him in my flooded head. Thanks for adding one more life-altering decision to the list.

“I’m going to start dinner in about twenty minutes. If you need anything or want to come keep me company, it’s hard to get lost.” He chuckles, almost out of habit. His best laugh is when I get him going, usually off of a silly GIF with a wild comment. His tone goes up an octave. That uncontrollable—can hardly breathe laughter. Being the funny friend has always been something I admire about myself. I’m not a comedian and yet somehow everyone gets a kick out of my witty, childish humor. Some days I don’t feel like that inner kid exists anymore though I’ve fought to keep her intact for so long.

“Thanks,” I reply, watching him leave before I kick my shoes off and push my bags to the side. Propping my feet up and resting my hands behind my head, that nervous feeling that took me like a tornado outside has transitioned into sunlight.

He’s right. Two days away to release and relax—that’s what I wanted. I’m not going to open my laptop. I’m not going to check my business email. I’m going to indulge in my weekend of rest. Heavens, I need it.

“Max, where are you gonna go? Run off to Lauren’s again?” Cole catches my wrist, stopping me from walking out the door. I take the screen with my forearm, pressing forward. It gives him no choice, but to back off as I exit to the deck.

“I can’t keep doing this, Cole,” I stress, breathing back tears.

“Keep doing what, Max? You’re acting insane.”

Asshole! I hate him. Fucking narcissistic asshole.

He follows me to my truck on the side of our two-story house that we bought together seven years ago. “You’re not listening. It’s the same shit over and over. This revolving cycle where I’m about to burst and then you reel me back in, saying all the things I want to hear.” I swing my bags, frustrated and angry enough to throw them to the ground. “All the things you know will keep me.” I open the rear driver’s side door, setting my suitcase on the seat and my laptop on the floor. Then, I double-check that they’re not going to move around. “You said let’s try therapy. Did we ever do it?” I slam the door shut. “No.”

He traps me between his arms, compelling my back against the door. “You’re bluffing. You’re not leaving me.”

The curtain of animosity falls over his blue eyes and breaks me, but mine matches. I’m fighting fire with fire. Staying grounded, I don’t raise my voice when I want to. “Cole. Get off of me.”

He holds up his hands, backing away. “Fine, Max. If that’s how you want to play it. Run off to Lauren’s or Amber’s, whoever. Tell them how terrible I am. I’ll see you in two days.”

“I’ll be back in two days because I’m a responsible adult. I’m not leaving my daughter and I’m not coming back to you. I’m. Done.”

“You’re full of shit. You love me.”

“I can love you and not want to be with you.” I open the driver’s door and hop into the cab, turning the engine over. It roars, but can’t mask Cole’s words.

He throws his arms open wide. “You’re not divorcing me. This is petty. Give it up.”

I pull away from the house, making a left towards Lauren’s.

I don’t want this.

He’s in the rearview mirror. A dirty heather gray tee, light-washed worn-out jeans, and callused hands running over his tight-trimmed brown hair. Colson.

Cole…

I don’t. I don’t want this.

Holding my breath, I fight it, but it’s no use. The teardrops fall one by one, soaking my skin. They run to my chin, taking my mouth in silence with each short, sharp, shallow breath that finds its way past the composure I’m desperate to keep.

Damn it!

I pull to the side of the road, searching for the box of tissues. He’s right. I love him...and this is shattering my heart into a million pieces. How many times have we been done? This is the second and last time I’ll drive off with my bags packed. I can’t do it anymore. When I come back, I’m moving forward with a separation. I have to. I can’t...I can’t go on like this.

“But you and Cole have that connection girls dream of.” Lauren lays next to me on her stomach, on top of the purple comforter covering the twin bed in her guest room. Her hazel glance doesn’t leave the game of solitaire beneath her thumbs.

“The on-paper fairytale.“ I roll my eyes and dig my elbows into my thighs. Tapping the button on the side of my phone, the screen lights up with the time. I should have eaten before I came here. Dropping the phone between my criss-crossed legs, I stretch my arms up and back.

“He’s an asshole,” Amber adds in her two cents. She tosses her auburn waves over her shoulder and the corner of her lip curls.

“He’s the father of her child and her husband. They’ve made it through everything else and this is one more hurdle. You don’t just give up on someone you’ve been with that long.” Since we were sixteen. It’s not a decision I’m taking lightly.

“So what? Cole is entitled like the rest of his family.” She walks away from the window, dramatically flopping onto her side behind me.

“Just because you don’t like the rest of the Warren family—”

“No, I hate Colleen Warren,” Amber cuts her off. “She’s a Karen-y bitch.”

I’m silently listening to them debate my marriage and mother-in-law, who is a Karen-y bitch without the haircut when my phone dings.

Amber stirs till she can see my face. “What is that smile? Who are you talking to, Max!”

“Do you remember that client I befriended?”

“The guy you canceled on me to go to lunch with?” Lauren points out. I forgot about that. “I made Timmy go with me to Merit Garden by the way and he’s now educated in the variety of succulents.”

“I bet he loved that,” I sass. “Yeah, Ryke Onak.”

“Do you smile like that when I text you?” Amber raises her brows, waiting for a confession that’s not coming.

I look over my shoulder at her. “When Andy texts me from your phone.”

“Andy sent me a video last week of his tonsils, asking if they looked swollen,” Lauren changes the subject. When Andy video calls me, it’s to gloat about how he rolls out of bed with perfect waves that I can’t manage to get my hair to hold. I don’t know why he chopped it off. I quickly type a reply before I get questioned again.

“You’re the only doctor he’ll listen to.” Amber would know. She’s been married to Andy almost as long as I’ve been married to Cole. They’re equally competitive and unfiltered.

Well...stay it, Max. Tell them. “I’m driving to North Carolina in the morning. To Ryke’s.”

“You’re staying at another man’s place. Girl,” Amber’s groans disapprove. I’m glad she doesn’t know everything. It’s not like me to keep things from her, but I don’t want to hear how sketchy my decisions are. “If Cole gets wind of that.”

“He’s a friend and I need to get out of this town. I need a fucking break. And Cole doesn’t need to know where I’m at. Come Monday, I’ll be officially separated from him. That means don’t run your mouth to Timmy.”

“You know how well he retains information. Go ask him what a succulent is. He’s in the garage. Bet he can’t tell you.” The shaggy-headed dork couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.

“Are you going to the race tomorrow?” If Cole is on the track, Timmy is usually beside him.

“Yep. Who’s watching Ri?”

“Colleen has her.”

Am lets out another groan. Lauren and I snicker at her pained expression. If any word of me leaving Cole gets around before we’ve come to a custody agreement and assets, Colleen will worm her way in the middle. God, I don’t even want to think about that. I never thought about how it would work...because I always thought we would fix us. A tiny, microscopic part of me buried deep inside still believes it.