Chapter 2
Rhys
Itake a shower, scrubbing off the day—the smell of disinfectant, the hospital cafeteria coffee, the ghost of a patient’s blood still clinging to my wrists.
The water’s hot enough to sting, but it doesn’t wash off the guilt.
I fucking forgot to pick up Finn.
My sixteen-year-old son, standing out in the cold for half an hour.
Guilt settles heavy in my chest.
But this isn’t my lane. Is it?
Jayne handles that part of our life—the calendars, the reminders, the pickups and drop-offs.
She asked me last week to cover soccer because she had a major trial at her firm. I said yes. I meant it. But I forgot to put it on my calendar. I was going to, but then something came up. I can’t even remember what.
Maybe a consult. Maybe rounds.
Or maybe you just didn’t think it mattered enough to remember?
That thought twists in my gut.
The truth is, I’ve come to expect Jayne to handle the small things. And not because I think I’m better than her. It’s just that she’s always been the one who keeps the machine running. She’s good at it. I’m good at other things.
Life-saving things.
I lean my head against the shower tile. Water hits the back of my neck, pounding like a reprimand.
I should have called.
But the thing is, I was in surgery. I wasn’t lying when I said that.
A seventy-three-year-old man came in with an aortic dissection. I can still see his chest open under the lights, his heart exposed, fragile and fierce. When you’re in that moment, holding someone’s life in your hands, nothing else exists. Not your wife, not your kids, not the clock.
And then I came home to Jayne’s warm brown eyes. Hurt, tired, accusing.
That’s me being unfair.
Jayne doesn’t accuse. She tries to talk. Tries to keep the peace. She’s a fucking saint.
But she doesn't have her hands in someone’s chest.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower cabin.
The mirror’s fogged over, but I can still see the blur of my face.
For a man who saves lives, Prescott, you look like shit.
Jayne used to look at me like I hung the moon. Now she looks at me like I’m blocking the light.
I wipe the mirror and meet my own eyes.
I’m not a bad husband.
I am not.
This house in Roland Park, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Baltimore, is because of me.
Four bedrooms, three baths, and millions of miles away from our middle-class childhoods.
The car in the driveway cost more than my first year of med school. The kids’ college funds are set. The mortgage is practically nothing.
I’ve done what I was supposed to do.
I have fucking provided.
So why does it always come back to this, to me thinking I’m failing, to her making me feel like I am?
Because she doesn’t care about any of that. Money, Security.
She used to, but now all she talks about is balance, partnership, and how tired she is.
I’m tired, too.
But when I say it, I’m selfish.
When she says it, she’s exhausted.
Why can’t she just fucking stay at home so I don’t have to feel guilty about forgetting to pick up my kid or something else just as mundane?
Mark from Vascular was just telling us in the doctor’s lounge how when they had their second kid, his wife retired herself. “Smartest thing we ever did. She runs the house, I run the OR. Works perfectly.”
Granted that we were all men in the lounge that day, but we all agreed with the sentiment. Well, all of us, except for Caldwell, our new ENT surgeon, whose wife is a pediatrician. “We split the school drop-offs,” he said proudly. “Alternate weekends for games.”
Mark laughed. “That’s why your numbers are low, buddy. You can’t be world-class and part-time.”
Everyone laughed.
I laughed, too.
Not because it’s funny. Not at all. It’s just a fact. You can’t be exceptional and still have time for soccer. That’s the rule. Somebody else handles the routine. The details. The noise.
That’s what Jayne’s always been good at—absorbing the noise.
“I just got divorced,” our gas guy says. “Fucking great. Now no one nags me about the fucking dishwasher, and when I go to a bar and pick someone up, I’m guaranteed a lay.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, towel around my waist, and stare at the side of the dresser where she keeps her perfume and jewelry. Her presence lingers with me everywhere I go, her scent, a forgotten hair tie, a strand of her hair on my coat, but lately, it’s like she’s fading out of the frame.
She’s been busy this past year. She got a promotion, and that’s been taking up her time.
But, hell, I got a promotion too. I became the chief of cardio.
I don’t want to be mercenary, but it’s my job that pays the fucking bills and lets us live the way we do—not hers. We wouldn’t miss her salary.
I told her that once. I meant it as permission for her to quit the damn job. She looked at me like I slapped her.
She said she liked working, that she’s proud of what she does, that it gives her purpose.
Bullshit.
She just needs to feel important somewhere. And since I’m the one with the important job at home, she gets that validation at work.
The thought presses in, leaving guilt and anger tangled tight beneath my skin.
I pull on underwear and a T-shirt, angry with myself.
I’m being an asshole. I know it.
She looked so damn hurt when I told her I was too tired to discuss this shit.
I forgot to pick up our son.
She has every right to ask me to be considerate.
She didn’t yell and scream.
Gordon, our neuro’s wife, does that. We’ve all heard her through his closed office door.
Not Jayne. She just asks for…respect?
Fuck!
I love Jayne.
God, I love her.
But lately, nothing I do is right. Even when she doesn’t say a word, the accusation is there—in the way she looks at me, in the silence between us. I’ve done enough psych rounds to know what this is: projection. My own self-reproach, mirrored back at me.
I don’t know how to get out of this strange place we’re in, where I want to…and do leave whenever there is any kind of conflict. I don’t have the energy to deal with it. I also have no clue how to deal with it when I have the energy.
It’s easier to retreat into the OR, where I know the rules.
There’s a blood clot. You deal with it.
There’s a heart. You make it beat again.
There’s a problem. You find it. You fix it.
I don’t even know what the problem with our marriage is. But it’s hemorrhaging, and I can’t locate the point of rupture to control the bleed.
I brush my teeth and get into bed.
I am tired. And I need to be in pre-op by five in the morning.
I need sleep. But I lie awake, waiting for her.
It takes her a couple of hours.
I heard the dishwasher run, the clatter of dishes, the sound of the fridge door, the quiet hum of her moving through the house doing things.
Am I supposed to help her?
In the past, when we were younger and I’d try to fill up the dishwasher or do laundry, she’d tell me to study or just relax. She knew I was fucking exhausted as medical students and residents are meant to be.
She did it all then.
She dropped out of law school and earned a paralegal degree while working at the law firm where she still is.
She worked. Paid the bills for medical school and our lives.
But I returned everything with interest, didn’t I? I gave her this house, vacations in Europe, and a fucking Mercedes.
Maybe we should hire a housekeeper. Then she won’t be so damned tired, and I won’t have to carry this damned guilt.
We do have a cleaning service, which she appreciates. I know that. But she’s not keen on having someone in our home all day. I get that. I wouldn’t like that either. But…maybe we both should put our discomfort with that aside and get the help.
Fuck me! How did I become the asshole in our lives?
I save lives for a living. She organizes soccer carpools and office schedules. And somehow, I’m the bad guy here?
I stare at my phone, back against the headboard, pretending to read when she comes to our bedroom.
She moves quietly around the room, the soft sounds of her routine filling the space between us.
I finally give up pretending to read and watch her.
She removes her earrings, changes into pajama shorts, and a tank top.
She’s elegant.
She looks good.
My Jayne has always looked good.
Sure, my colleagues look at every new nurse—and some of them even have affairs—but I’ve never been even remotely tempted.
I have a wife who looks like Jayne; why the hell would I look around?
Not that I even have time to get laid at home these days.
Between her busy schedule lately and my busy schedule always, sex has gone out the window.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe we just need to have more sex. Connect physically. Intimately. That’s what couples do when things start slipping, right? Get back to basics. Touch, talk, fix. Maybe that’s all we need.
She gets into bed, sets the alarm on her phone, and turns her bedside light off.
Her hair’s still damp from the shower she takes before bed. I catch the scent of her shampoo—lavender, the same brand she’s used since college.
That small familiarity makes me ache.
I clear my throat. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow. The first case is a triple bypass at six, then a valve replacement right after. I’ll be lucky if I get lunch.”
She doesn’t look at me, just lies flat on her back. “Okay.”
“After that, I’m supposed to consult on a pediatric transplant candidate. Twelve-year-old girl. Congenital defect.” I pause, hoping for…what? Sympathy? Admiration? Anything? “It’s going to be a long day.”
Jayne shuffles the covers so the duvet is now across her shoulders. “I know, Rhys. They usually are for you.” She says it with no malice or heat, just resignation.
That stings.
I set my phone on the bedside table on the charging mat. I push back against the headboard and close my eyes, tension pulsing between us. “I don’t want us to fight when I get home.”
When she doesn’t respond, I clench my jaw. She won’t cut me any slack, will she? Damn it!
“I mean it, Jayne. I really can’t walk into this house and have another night like tonight. It throws me off.”
She turns her head to look at me, her face half in shadow from my bedside lamp. “Throws you off?”
“You know what I mean.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I just…these conversations are exhausting. I’ve got people depending on me tomorrow. If I’m distracted—”
“I understand,” she cuts me off softly.
“Jayne,” I snap, frustrated. “I’m trying to apologize here.”
She closes her eyes, shuts me out. “No, Rhys, you’re not.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right. I’m not apologizing.
I wanted to say I’m sorry I forgot. I wanted to say I’ll do better. But somewhere between the guilt and the defensiveness, it turned into a speech about my work, my exhaustion, my needs.
I turn off my lamp and lie on my back. I stare at the ceiling. I’m cold even though the heat’s on.
“I don’t want to fight.” My voice is rough.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I listen to her breathing even out, steady and distant, like waves receding from the shore.
Tomorrow, I’ll open a man’s chest and keep him alive.
Tomorrow, I’ll be decisive, confident, in control.
Tomorrow, I’ll be the man everyone at Camden Memorial looks up to.
But tonight, lying next to my wife in this beautiful house, I’ve never felt more powerless in my life.
As I hear her slide into sleep, a part of me wants to reach out to her, hold her, kiss her, make love to her…connect with her.
But I don’t.
She’s angry with me, and she’ll probably push me away. Like hell I’m going to add rejection to the pile of regrets I already carry.
It’s better this way, I decide.
Tomorrow, she’ll calm down.
I’ll calm down.
Things will be back to normal.
This is how marriages work, right? People get upset, and then they get over it.
She’ll move on.
She always does.