Chapter 5
Jayne
“I’m so sorry, Iris. I swear I wanted to join you, I just—”
“Jayne, babe, you don’t owe me an apology.” Iris sounds as tired as I am. But with a difference. I’m tired of being my husband’s doormat, and she’s tired of my excuses.
“I do.” I pull open my closet door and push in an earbud, which slides free. “I’m bailing on you again. I always do.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, not unkindly. “But it’s because someone else changed it for you.”
I let out a long breath and sink down on the edge of the bed, staring at the neat row of dresses hanging in my closet.
Silk, satin, sequins, in every color of celebration. The gowns of a woman who’s been to too many galas, smiled for too many photos, and comes home with too many unspoken resentments.
“I don’t even know why I’m doing this,” I admit. “He made such a big deal about me being there, like it’s some kind of performance. I’m not even sure he wants me there. He just wants me visible.”
“Because visible looks like support,” Iris sneers. “And God forbid you make the great Dr. Prescott look like he’s not adored.”
I huff out a laugh. “You make it sound so awful.”
“Jayne, babe, it is awful,” she states. “You work full-time, you run a household, you’ve raised two kids basically on your own, and you’re still expected to look like a trophy wife while doing it.”
I rise and flip through the gowns.
I run my hand over a black gown with a low back. I wore it to a gala three years ago. He said I looked beautiful then.
Was he looking at me, at Jayne, his wife, or an object? A trophy, as Iris just said?
“I have so much.” The old guilt is heavy to carry because I do have so much. The house, the car, the clothes…a surgeon husband. Who wouldn’t want what I have?
“Everything but respect.” Her voice is a whisper, but it ricochets through me with the speed of a bullet.
“Yeah.”
Iris is not one to mince words, and she’s always been honest with me.
I hear her scoff. “You know, it’s okay to want your husband to respect you, Jayne. It’s not too much. It’s the bare minimum.”
I swallow hard and pull out the black dress because it’s the safe choice.
I know it fits, and I know he likes it. I don’t have it in me tonight to risk the weary exhale, the careful “Are you sure you want to wear that?” that always felt like a bruise disguised as concern.
I can’t stomach any of that passive-aggressive shit—not with Iris’s words still buzzing in my ears.
“What do I do? I am his wife.” I lay the dress on the bed and then open another closet, which holds my shoes —the ones that hurt my feet.
“Oh, Jayne.” Iris’s tone softens. “Go tonight. Smile if you must. But stop doing it for him. Do it for you. Walk into that room, knowing that you built the life he’s showing off.”
I pull out black pumps, and as I’m closing the door, my eye catches on a red dress, one I have never worn before. I bought it…with Iris. She insisted, even though it’s not my style. Rhys prefers me to be elegant, not loud.
I smile as I pull it out. “I’m going to wear that red we got at Katwalk Boutique.” It’s a fancy boutique in Fells Point.
“Yeah?” There is surprise in her voice now.
“Yeah.”
“You go, girl!” she cheers.
“Thanks, Iris.”
“Always, babe. Now go remind everyone, especially him, who the hell you are.”
I hang up, take a long breath, and lay the red dress next to the black one. The crimson fabric shimmers in the light, bold and unapologetic.
The dress fits me like a dream. It has simple lines, a strong color, and zero frills. I smooth the fabric over my hips and check my reflection.
I look like myself but…more.
The door opens behind me, and I catch his reflection in the mirror before I turn. He’s in his tux, looking every inch the man the hospital adores, the one I love, confident and polished.
His eyes find me.
“Jayne,” he murmurs, almost like he’s forgotten how to speak. “You look…beautiful.”
It’s been so long since he’s said something like this to me. So long that I can’t remember the last time he did. He used to say it all the time. I used to laugh and warn him not to forget how lucky he was to have me.
But those easy days are in the past, just like his compliments. This one, though genuine, feels distant somehow, a consolation prize.
I meet his gaze in the mirror. “Thank you.”
He takes a step closer, eyes lingering, not in a distant, distracted way he’s been doing lately, but like he’s seeing me.
The air changes between us. It’s unexpectedly charged with an emotion that is old and familiar.
Lust. And love.
“You should wear red more often. You look incredible in it.”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he holds out his hand.
My heart stumbles. For a second, we’re back in time.
It’s twenty years ago, and we’re in our too-small apartment, dancing in the kitchen while pasta boils over on the stove.
I can almost feel his hand at my waist, hear his low laugh against my ear.
I want that back so badly.
I lay my hand on his.
He twirls me.
I giggle.
“I don’t tell you that enough.” His eyes are soft, loving, warm. “You’re…amazing, Jayne.”
I am?
“You say that to all the girls, I’m sure,” I tease.
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Got me! I do say it to only two girls in my life—and both my wife and daughter are astonishing.”
I want to believe him. I want to lean into the warmth of it, forget the fights, the distance, the silence.
I want to let this be enough, even though I know that words are easy and he’s good at them.
After all, so many of his patients and colleagues say to me, “Dr. Prescott has an excellent bedside manner.”
“Shall we?” He offers his arm, a gesture so charming that I let my doubts drop.
I chuckle softly and slip my hand through his elbow.
As we head out the door, after saying goodnight to the kids, I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror. We look like the perfect couple. From the outside, you’d never know how carefully we’re holding the seams together.