Chapter 4
Rhys
The hospital’s annual gala has become a bigger headache than a triple bypass.
Jayne doesn’t want to go. She told me yesterday morning. She did it casually, as if she were mentioning that we were out of milk.
I toss the patient chart I’ve been staring at onto my desk. It’s becoming harder and harder to pretend that the tightness in my chest is not because of my marriage. Something is wrong. It’s been wrong for a while.
Fucking hell!
Jayne knows how important this gala is. It’s not just a party—it’s networking, optics, the kind of thing that keeps my name on the board’s radar and my department funded. It’s politics dressed up in tuxedos and champagne. We have to make an appearance. I’m the chief of cardio for fuck’s sake.
And she says, “I’m skipping the gala this year. I’m going out with Iris and the girls.”
Just like that.
She used to love these events. She’d wear something simple and elegant, smile that smile that makes people think I am the luckiest man in the room. She’d talk to my colleagues’ wives. She’d be graceful, warm, the perfect complement to me.
We were a team.
Now she’s suddenly too busy, too tired, too…resentful?
When I brought it up last night, it turned into a whole thing.
“Rhys, I told you I already have plans.”
Her voice was sharp, and it ignited something in me. I snapped.
“Plans? Jayne, this isn’t optional.”
“For you,” she shot back. “It’s important for you. I’ve been to a dozen of these galas. I smile, I nod, I talk to people about your brilliance. Meanwhile, you barely notice I’m there.”
“That’s not fair. I am networking.”
“Fair or not, Rhys, it is true. I sit there while you are with everyone else…ignoring me.”
I don’t understand why she’s being so difficult. All I want is for her to show up, to be supportive. That’s what spouses do.
“I’m asking you to come,” I ordered. “That’s all. One night. It looks bad if you’re not there.”
“I don’t want to, Rhys.” There was a plea in her tone.
“Fine!” I flung my hands up. “I’ll ask Tory to be my plus one.”
Her eyes go from disbelief to hurt. “What?”
Tory’s a colleague. She’s one of the administrators with whom I get along quite well. I know that Jayne is jealous of my relationship with her. She doesn’t say it, but I can sense it.
“So, anyone will do on your arm, Rhys?” she asked softly.
“That’s not what this is about,” I replied tightly, regretting bringing Tory up. “This is about support. About showing up.”
“When do you show up for me, Rhys?”
“Stop making this a quid pro quo. I need you there,” I barked. “Come on, Jayne. I’m head of cardio. You know how it is.”
She looked destroyed, and guilt twisted in my gut.
Lately, it’s there every time I talk to her.
We went to bed angry.
In the morning, she woke up when I did what I do: shut the damn alarm off and get another five minutes before she wakes me.
She made me breakfast. She told me to have a nice day. She didn’t pout. She didn’t bring up the previous night until I did.
“Are you coming to the gala tonight or not?”
“I’ll be there.”
Relief loosened my insides.
She wasn’t rejecting me.
She was going to do what I wanted her to do.
She still loved me.
But now I’m the asshole, pressuring my wife to do something she doesn’t want to do.
I pick up my phone and text her: I’ll be home by five. We have to leave at seven sharp.
I stare at the sent message, thumb hovering, debating if I should add something softer.
So, I write: Looking forward to it. You’ll look beautiful. Thank you for coming.
She replies with a thumbs-up emoji, and I have averted a disaster, again.
When did my marriage become such a mess? It used to not be this hard. It used to be easy.
So fucking easy.
Maybe we can go back to it, I think, as I walk out of my office.
We’ll have a good time at the gala. This time, I’ll make sure to be attentive, spend time with her, and not leave her to her own devices as I sometimes do.
Yeah, that should make her happy. That’ll fix whatever it is she’s feeling. Right?
I tug at my bowtie as I glance at my reflection in the mirror in the living room, and tell myself, one more time, that this night is going to be just fine.
Jayne’s upstairs getting ready. I can hear the low hum of her hairdryer, the sound of drawers opening and closing.
When I came back home, she was like she always is. That was a relief. I can’t handle her negativity anymore. I need her to be my safe place, not yet another area of conflict.
I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
I’m drinking it, going through the list of donors I have to make the rounds with in my head, when Finn walks in.
He’s in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair wet from his shower after soccer, eyes sharp and assessing in that way only a sixteen-year-old can manage.
“Mama is going with you?”
“Yes.”
“She was supposed to go out with Aunt Iris. I was going to babysit Mikaela.” There is an accusation in his demeanor.
I raise an eyebrow. “She can go out with Iris another time. This Camden Gala is important.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Mom doesn’t want to go.”
“And how would you know that?” I demand, annoyed that Jayne has discussed this with our son.
He lets out a dry laugh. “I got ears, Dad. I heard you guys argue about it last night.”
I sucked in a breath and let it out in frustration. “Son, this is…look, tonight is important and—”
“Important for whom?” He challenged, cutting me off.
I swallow the anger burning up my throat and calm myself before I speak. I don’t want to say something I will eventually regret. “It’s part of my job, Finn.”
He shakes his head, almost smiling, but there’s no humor in it. “You ever listen to yourself?”
I’m really not liking how this conversation is going. I’m the parent here. He’s my child. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, keeping my voice steady when I am all but shaking with irritation.
He shrugs stiffly, avoiding my gaze. “You talk like everything’s about you. Your job. Your schedule. Your reputation. You don’t even notice how unhappy she is, do you?”
I set the water glass down hard. “That’s enough.”
“No, it’s not.” He now looks me in the eyes, and I’m shocked at what I see. Disappointment and anger. “She’s been miserable for months. You don’t help with anything at home, and when you do pay attention, it’s only to tell her what she’s not doing right.”
That is so not true, and my hackles rise. “Watch your tone.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re being an ass to Mom.”
I stare at him, stunned. Finn’s the quiet, steady, even-tempered kid who doesn’t push back. I don’t even know how to respond.
“Son.” I force calm into my voice. “This is between your mother and me.”
He snorts a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Yeah, but we all live here, Dad. It’s not just between you two when she cries in the kitchen.”
That barb strikes its target.
And I think again, I don’t want to discuss this with him.
“Finn, I repeat, this is none of your business.”
“I’m not trying to disrespect you, Dad,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but so firm that it scares me. “I just think maybe you should stop expecting her to orbit around you all the time.”
That does it!
I slap my hand on the kitchen counter. “Enough, Finn.”
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head and leaves, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
I stare at the space he just vacated, my pulse pounding in my ears, aware that I have lost control of the situation.
He’s wrong. He doesn’t understand the pressure I’m under, the responsibility, the expectations. He’s a kid. He sees the surface, not the cost.
Still, his words, I know, will haunt me. Words that tell me what he thinks of me as a man, as a husband.
You’re being an ass to her.
A few minutes later, Mikaela comes bounding down the stairs in her pajamas, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.
“Daddy!” She’s breathless. “Look what I drew!”
Her timing is perfect, a soft reprieve after Finn’s storm.
She opens the book to a pencil sketch of me and Jayne.
My daughter is a freaking artist because it’s incredible.
We’re standing together, smiling, her hand in mine. It’s an old photo she must’ve copied from a frame in the hallway.
“It’s beautiful.” I kneel to look closer. “You’re getting so good.”
“Do you think Mommy will like it?”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. She made something for Jayne. Something to show her she’s adored. “She’ll love it,” I choke out.
Mikaela throws her arms around my neck. “I love you, Daddy.”
I hug her back, my throat tight. “Love you, too, Peanut.”
She skips off, while I’m left kneeling in the kitchen in a tuxedo, surrounded by an accusatory silence.
I straighten, bereft.
I love my kids. Very much.
I show up when I can, and I work hard so they never have to worry about their future.
But lately, I’ve been so focused on keeping everything running that I haven’t noticed what’s breaking.
And it looks like everything is!
I grab my keys from the counter and glance at the clock.
Jayne’s still upstairs.
We’re going to be late.
Damn it!