Chapter Sixteen
Trenton
I should’ve known.
The moment I woke up early, feeling rested and content, should’ve been a red flag that the universe was setting me up for a giant middle finger. You don’t just wake up before your alarm feeling like everything’s finally going your way for no fucking reason unless some cosmic prank is about to go down. It’d happened before—the day Mom died, to be exact. Kindergarten-sized me woke up with all the hope of a Disney movie, despite knowing she’d been sick for almost half of my short life. We said our last goodbyes that day, and our family would be forever changed.
It didn’t hit me until Camille’s phone buzzed while she was in the bathroom putting on earrings as a final touch before leaving for work. It was the doc’s private line, never a just checking in situation. If it were good news, we’d be stuck refreshing that cursed patient portal for her test results like it was Black Friday.
“Can you grab it?” Camille asked.
“It’s the OB/GYN office,” I said.
She ran to the bed, nearly tackling her phone off the nightstand and letting her body fall to the mattress. She crisscrossed her legs, staring at her phone’s display.
“Are you going to answer it?” I asked.
“Why are they calling?” she asked, pressing the speaker phone at the same time. “Hello?”
“Hi, Cami? This is Shara, Dr. Ley’s nurse. How are you?”
“I’m good… I think.”
“We’re in his office looking over your test results, and he wants you and Trenton to come in to go over them in the morning. Can you do that?”
Her face paled. “Is it bad?”
“Don’t stress. Doctor just wants to discuss options.”
Camille glanced up at me. “Tomorrow morning seems urgent.”
I leaned closer. “Any chance he has time today?”
“Hi, Trent!” Shara said, sounding like she was smiling through the phone. “Actually, he had a cancellation after lunch. Can you come in at 12:30?”
“We can,” I stated before Camille could protest. She shook her head, but I planted a quick kiss on her hair and whipped out my phone to text Hazel and Calvin.
“Great,” Shara chirped on the phone. “I’ll let Dr. Ley know.”
Camille tucked her hair behind her ear with a sigh. “I’m already so far behind on everything.”
“Well, tag me in, Chamomile. I’ll step up.”
“You don’t even know everything I do behind the desk,” she said as she did one last scan of her face and hair in the mirror.
“I’ll knock out what I know. Make me a list of what I don’t.”
She wasn’t impressed. “Make a list and then train you? That doesn’t really lighten the mental load.”
“Do we need to hire you an assistant?”
“No,” she said, making a face. “Training them just puts me more behind, and they never do everything you pay them to do, anyway, all while insinuating you don’t pay them enough. And then when it doesn’t work out, it’s drama until they find someone else to complain about.”
“Yeah, let’s not do that.” I sighed, feeling defeated. “I’m trying here, baby.”
“I know,” she said softly, picking at her fingers. “I know you are.” She paused. “What do you think the doctor’s going to say?”
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close. “I don’t know. And there’s no point in guessing. Let’s just get through the morning and try to stay busy.”
“Busy? Oh, that won’t be a problem,” she muttered, turning back to the mirror.
After a few more minutes, Camille emerged from the bathroom, a cloud of floral lotion trailing behind. She caught my gaze as she grabbed her keys from the bowl near the door, offering me a smile so half-hearted it practically asked for a refund. I tried to think of the perfect words to soothe her but came up empty. Over the years, my pep talks began to feel like copy and paste.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur, at the same time each minute stretching like taffy, heavy with anticipation and dread. I tried to bury myself in work, sanitizing, ordering supplies, and rescheduling my afternoon, but the nagging thought of the appointment gnawed at the edges of my focus.
When noon finally rolled around, we drove in silence, the only sound the low hum of the radio—which we both ignored. I turned into the parking lot of Dr. Ley’s office, my stomach tightening as we approached the entrance. Camille squeezed my hand when I parked and cut the engine, and I kissed her fingers, wishing I could do more than offer silent support. The possible bad news swirled in my head, but the details refused to form, leaving me stuck with a sick, empty feeling.
Inside, the waiting room was the usual mix of people glued to their phones or flipping through outdated magazines. Camille was restless in her seat, her fingers tapping rhythmically on her thigh. I reached over and covered her hand with mine, not that I was a wellspring of calm, but to remind her she wasn’t alone.
When her name was called, Camille stood up and walked toward the doorway, pausing to glance back at me for reassurance. I followed her down the hall, our footsteps echoing off the sterile tiles and walls poorly disguised with outdated homey decor that tried too hard to be comforting.
“Just breathe,” I murmured as we approached the consultation room.
Once seated, the doctor’s presence across his large mahogany desk felt like anything but a casual chat about levels and blood counts. Dr. Ley was a kind man, faded red hair and beard, both needing a trim. But sitting across from us, his face wore a seriousness that made my heart race. He nodded to us with a polite smile, but it was a whisper in comparison to the thick file on his desk surrounded by stacks of more paper.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maddox,” he said, gesturing to the chairs. “Thank you both for coming in.”
“Just Trent and Cami are fine,” Camille said.
“I’ve received the last of the imaging and lab results since our last appointment, and now that I have everything, I wanted to go over your diagnosis with you. And, don’t worry, it’s nothing we can’t handle, okay?”
Camille’s uncharacteristically warm grip tightened around my hand, as if hope was battling fear inside her, making her temperature rise.
“Your thyroid function results strongly indicate Graves’ Disease.”
“What the fuck is that?” I blurted out.
“Trent,” Camille warned.
Dr. Ley, unfazed by my outburst, continued reading from the report. “Your TSH levels are consistently low, and your Free T3 and T4 levels are elevated, along with Anti-TPO antibodies. The presence of thyroid antibodies and an ultrasound showing an enlarged thyroid confirm the diagnosis. Additionally, your other symptoms—chronic pelvic pain, irregular cycles, heavy bleeding—along with the MRI results, suggest Adenomyosis.”
I rubbed my face, trying to process the onslaught of medical jargon, but before I could ask the dozens of questions swirling in my head, Camille squeezed my fingers harder, signaling me to hold off.
“Just give him a minute,” she whispered, her voice steady, though I could hear the nerves behind it.
Dr. Ley offered a small grin. “Graves’ Disease and Adenomyosis are just fancy ways to diagnose what you’ve already experienced. The good news is diagnosis leads to better courses of treatment.”
Camille seemed to relax, but my shoulders still felt like they were hovering around my ears.
“What else is there to try?” Camille asked.
For the first time, I saw Dr. Ley shift in his chair, clearly preparing to tell us something difficult. “Not much, I’m afraid. I don’t want to alarm you, but we need to discuss the implications, what role this plays in infertility, and potential next steps.”
My body couldn’t decide if it wanted to finally relax because we had a diagnosis and a game plan or gear up for a fight for the exact same reasons. Every sentence out of the doc’s mouth felt like getting hit by one of my brothers—each punch landing harder than the last. Just when I thought I was about to snap, his words blurred together. It felt like I was being buried alive by a jungle’s worth of medical word salad, and I had no idea how to come up for air.
“Surgery?” Camille asked.
I blinked, sitting higher in my chair.
“It’s a big decision, and I understand it feels overwhelming,” Dr. Ley said. “But based on everything we’ve tried, it’s the most effective option to prevent the painful symptoms you’ve been dealing with for so long. We’ve exhausted other treatments—hormonal therapies and pain management have only been temporary fixes. It’s now impacting your quality of life, your day-to-day activities. So, yes, my recommendation is a partial hysterectomy. It’s a step toward relieving those chronic issues, and while it limits your fertility options, it’s about getting you back to living without constant discomfort.”
“Limits? Surgery eliminates them. Jesus Christ, she’s only thirty-five.” Every passing second felt like a ticking clock; winding Trenton closer to a full-blown rage spiral.
“The onset of menopause is the only long-term, naturally occurring alternative for pain relief in your case, but that typically happens between ages forty-five and fifty-five. Until then, her symptoms will increase, and we can only offer temporary relief through various treatments—some of which can be quite costly. Unfortunately, without a more lasting and comprehensive solution like surgery, this is the best we can manage in terms of controlling pain and improving her quality of life.”
I looked to Camille.
“I guess it’s something to think about,” she said, her voice quiet.
“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Ley asked.
She shook her head and stood. “Thank you, Doctor. We’ll let you know.”
“Camille,” the doctor said gently. “This isn’t a decision you need to make right away. You have time to fully consider what it means for you and your family. It’s your choice whether or not this is the path you want to take, and if it is, we’ll proceed only when you feel ready. There’s no rush, and I’m here to support you in whatever choice you make. You’ll know when the time is right, and then we’ll navigate it together.”
Camille nodded, then quietly exited his office, hurrying outside and across the parking lot. Once we reached the truck, she perched her elbows on her knees, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed. The only thing I could do was lean over and hold her. I’d never get used to not being able to fight the invisible things that hurt my wife, and I was beginning to think I’d carry around that helpless feeling forever.
Camille was quiet for the rest of the day. I’d already firmly directed everyone to leave her alone in her thoughts and not ask questions. As the sun began to set, we said goodbye to the last clients, closed the shop, and I followed her home without the radio on—my thoughts were already too loud. Take-out for dinner, a long bath, and one violent movie later (her choice), Camille crawled into bed next to me. Finally, she decided to talk. Once we started, it was like the dam broke, a flood of words, bargaining, anger, and fear mixed with relief, a few dark jokes, laughter, and comforting touch.
After a long night filled with deep talks, half-hearted decisions, and what felt like an ocean of tears, I stood in the kitchen, my eyes puffy and raw. Everything around me was moving in slow motion, stuck in a fog as I waited for the coffee pot to fill.
The sun barely peeked over the treetops as if it had better things to do than its only job. Outside, the grass was the picture of perfection, shiny and fresh from a morning shower. The neighbors’ porches were drowning in potted plants, garden gnomes, and chairs nobody used—a Pinterest board brought to life straight from Lush and Lovely Lawns . I wiped my hands on a dish towel, trying to shove down the dread rolling around in my stomach.
Spring used to be Camille’s almost favorite—second only to Halloween. Flowers, fresh starts, a juxtaposition to death and the macabre of fall and spooky season—but she was a beautiful ball of extremes, something I loved about her. Camille hadn’t mentioned anything about the warmer temps or colors this year, and I’d noticed. As I poured the breakfast blend into her favorite mug, loaded it up with sugar and vanilla creamer, I decided to make a move. I’d raid the storage shed, drag out the pastel decor, and deck the porch and mantle before she got home. A little pop of spring magic might lift her mood, even if only for a moment. Two hours earlier, she’d chosen to go through with the hysterectomy. The big decision. One only she could make, even though it felt like a blow to both of us.
At some point, we’d have to call Dr. Ley’s office to relay her decision and schedule the surgery, and I worried that would be tougher on her than the choice itself.
“Fuck,” I growled, planting my palms on the counter. I had to pick up Taylor and his family from the airport in a few hours, and Raegan and her husband Wesley were also coming into town. I shook my head, picked up her full, steaming mug, and carried it into the dark bedroom. Entertaining and babysitting would have to take a backseat for now. I knew everyone else would understand; it was Camille who would freak the fuck out.
I shut off my frustration and used the gentlest voice I could muster. “Morning, baby doll,” I said, setting her mug on the nightstand.
Camille stirred, groaned, and then after a few quiet moments of realization, she covered her eyes with the crook of her elbow. “I thought it was a bad dream,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I assured her, combing her hair away from her face with my fingers.
I didn’t rush her to get ready, instead taking my time, too. We’d both finished a full cup of coffee before we left the house, a first in years. I insisted on driving her to work, texting Dad on the way that I’d stop by to check on him later and that he’d have to reheat the breakfast casserole Camille had brought over the morning before.
Anytime Camille’s rigid and monotonous schedule was disturbed, everyone knew it was for good reason. Dad knew we’d explain when we could. Even Hazel could see by the sight of us it wasn’t time to do her usual incessant prodding, instead being extra sweet and helpful.
I worked straight through lunch and gave Camille a quick kiss goodbye before heading to the airport. I circled that damn roundabout a couple of times, trying to spot my brother and his wife and kids. Finally, they appeared. Taylor and Falyn had their hands full, standing on the covered sidewalk with a baggage cart piled high with roller bags, backpacks, and booster seats.
Taylor was grunting as he pushed the cart, looking like he was ready to pop a vein, while Falyn was doing her best to keep Hollis and Hadley from launching off the sides. The kids were having a blast, totally oblivious to the chaos around them, just riding that pile like it was a damn amusement park ride. I couldn’t help but chuckle. I used to think it was Travis and Abby’s life that was the walking disaster, but now Taylor and Falyn had taken the title. But it was a beautiful kind of chaos. At first sight, it was hard to believe they were there to circumvent the end of their marriage.
I jumped out of the truck, suddenly realizing it was out of sheer luck that it wasn’t still raining. I hadn’t even thought about having to put everything in the back. Taylor immediately pulled me in for a tight hug.
“Hey, shitpickle!” I teased, pounding his back.
“Language,” Falyn said, thinly veiling her annoyance.
“Sorry, princess,” I said, hooking my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “I’ve missed you and your ability to turn joy into depressing TEDtalks. What’s it called this time? ‘ You’re Forgettable: Why Your Legacy Won’t Last’ ? Or did you decide to go with ‘ The Earth is Dying: Here’s What We Can’t Do About It’ ? Either way, can’t wait.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the small grin turning up the corners of her mouth.
Despite Liis’s stoicism, it was Falyn who had always been less patient with us Maddox boys compared to the other wives, but she reminded me so much of Olive that it was hard to care. I squeezed her tiny frame to my side, feeling that familiar mix of annoyance and affection.
“Thanks for grabbing us at such late notice,” she said. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“We don’t mind at all, you know that,” I insisted, grabbing the first booster seat and buckling it in the back. It made me feel a little nostalgic. “Ya know, I used to fight with Olive’s all the time. It’s crazy, but now I miss it.”
Falyn and Taylor traded glances, but I knew better than to ask why.
“It’s nice to have someone else to fasten in the seats for once,” Falyn said, her tone carrying a subtle bite.
Taylor didn’t defend himself, instead carrying Hollis’s seat to the other side and then buckling it in. His gaze met mine. We didn’t even have to say it; Tyler might’ve been his twin, but with just one look, I understood that Taylor wanted me to forgive any subtle digs Falyn shot his way. Abby and Camille wouldn’t pretend, though—especially Abby. She was the youngest, but as the first wife, she was our sister before anyone else came along, and she was sometimes viciously protective, whether we wanted her to be or not.
Once the booster seats were secure, Falyn fastened in the kids while Taylor and I played Tetris with the bags in the truck bed.
Falyn climbed into the back to sit between Hollis and Hadley, and Taylor sat up front with me, sighing like he’d just summited Mt. Everest after buckling his seat belt.
“You all good back there, baby?” Taylor asked.
“Yep,” Falyn said, staring out the window.
Her platinum hair was still long, but it was a tangled mess, twisted up in a clip that couldn’t quite hold it together. She wore a comfy sweatshirt and leggings, the kind of outfit that said she didn’t have the energy to care. The exhaustion etched on her face and the frustration in her eyes made it clear she was struggling. Whatever had happened between Taylor and her had drained the glow I remembered from their wedding. I wasn’t sure if it was the conflicted emotions of raising Hollis, the son Taylor had fathered with another woman, having two children so close together, or just that her feelings for Taylor had changed. Maybe it was none of those things, but the burden of whatever she was going through was heavy, visible, and impossible to deny.
I reached behind me and patted her knee. “I really have missed you, sis. Glad you’re home.”
I watched for her reaction in the rearview mirror, seeing that she kept her gaze on the landscape passing by her window. The corners of her mouth barely offered a ghost of a smile. “The kids have been looking forward to it.”
I couldn’t help but glance at my brother. Despite the calm exterior, I knew him well enough to see he was hiding sheer panic and desperation. At least, that’s what I would’ve been feeling in that moment. Falyn was devoid of emotion, just a shell of the woman Taylor had married.
Most people think the opposite of love is hate, but they’re wrong. It’s indifference. For any man desperately in love, to see detachment in a woman’s eyes when she stares back at you?
… goddamn. It’s the end of the world. Like the universe itself just gave you the finger and told you to pack it in.
“I know we talked about you staying with us, but Camille hasn’t been feeling well, so I’m going to get you set up at Dad’s.”
“We can get a hotel room if we need to,” Taylor said.
“It’s not in the budget,” Falyn replied, her words clipped, carrying an undertone she tried to smooth over.
Taylor cleared his throat. “Dad’s it is.” He reached down and unfastened his ball cap from the strap of his backpack and pulled it low over his brow.
The tension in the truck was fucking suffocating. I wasn’t buying that they were keeping their problems hidden from the kids, and I wasn’t sure how they’d convinced themselves otherwise. It made me wonder how bad things had been for them at home. Taylor was in insurance, traveled a lot for work, and that probably just made everything worse. Getting used to living together again when their relationship was already hanging by a thread had to be a damn nightmare. Anger simmered in the air between them, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before Taylor’s world went up in flames, and he’d already tried everything to save it.
“How are James and Jessica? How’s Olive?” Falyn asked. For the first time, light had returned to her eyes.
“They’re good. Ornery as hell, but good,” I said.
“Olive is liking school? Making lots of friends?” she asked.
“Yeah, she’s like the fu… freakin’ homecoming queen everywhere she goes. Everyone loves her. It’s been pretty cool to watch.”
Falyn settled back into her seat, finally a genuine grin spreading across her face. Taylor glanced back quickly then looked forward, relief relaxing his entire body. Whatever it was, he’d been hoping for it.
I dropped them off at Dad’s, helped them unload, and then returned to my truck, feeling an overwhelming sense of urgency to see my wife. The drive back to Skin Deep took too long, but the moment I pushed through the glass doors and saw her behind the counter, I couldn’t help but pull her into my arms.
“Get them all settled in?” she asked, her voice muffled as she spoke into my wool shirt jacket.
“Yeah.” I reluctantly let her go. “Have the bank bag ready? I can take it.”
“Already done.”
“Okay, I’ll start on inventory and the supply order.”
“Also done.”
I chuckled. “Did you leave anything for me? What happened to tagging me in?”
She shrugged. “I needed to stay busy before I lost my shit.” She held up her hand. “Don’t hug me again, I’ll cry.”
I crossed my arms and nodded, trying to keep myself from doing what came so naturally.
She went to the front, locked the door and switched off the neon open sign, then returned to the front counter. “I thought we could call Dr. Ley’s office and tell them our decision. I don’t know why, but I want to do it here. I don’t want to wait until we get home.”
“Is it still our decision? I mean… if you’ve been wavering at all, we should wait, we…”
Her face crumbled for just a second or two—lip quivering, eyes glassing over—but then she pulled it back, tucking her emotions away like she always did, and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Yes. I’m ready. You?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I mean, yeah… yeah, if that’s what you want, I’m on board.”
She nodded, staring at the cell phone in her hand. After some hesitation, she called his number and pressed the button to enable speakerphone.
“Dr. Ley’s office,” the receptionist answered.
“This is Camille Maddox for Dr. Ley.”
“He’s finishing up with a patient. Would you like to hold? Or I can have him call you back?”
“I’ll hold,” Camille said, looking up at me with tears in her eyes.