Chapter 6
Rhys
After a very silent Uber ride, we reach the George Peabody Library, which never fails to impress.
Six tiers of cast-iron balconies rise around the ballroom, stacked with old leather-bound volumes that glow under the golden light of chandeliers.
The Annual Camden Memorial Gala is the event of the year, when we all leave our scrubs behind to schmooze with donors, one another, and the Baltimore elite—it’s where medicine meets money, and…we all pretend we’re not exhausted.
I’m proud to have Jayne on my arm. She’s wearing a dress I once told her was “a little too much,” but it suits her—so much so that heads turn as we pass, and I catch at least two of my colleagues pausing mid-conversation to watch her.
I can’t blame them. I’m also having trouble looking away from her.
What can I say, my wife is a fucking showstopper. She’s not just beautiful. She’s unnerving and magnetic all at once.
“Dr. Prescott!” someone calls, and I turn to see Mark Davis from Vascular heading our way, his arm slung around his wife, Cathy.
“Rhys,” Mark booms.
“How’s it going, Mark?” I shake his hand and do the whole kiss-kiss thing with Cathy.
Mark lingers too long when he greets my wife. His grin is definitely not appropriate. Jealousy snaps inside of me, and I want to thump my chest with my fists and scream, “She’s mine.”
“Jayne, you look incredible.” Mark is an incorrigible flirt. “You sure this guy deserves you?”
She smiles smoothly. “Just as much as Cathy deserves you.”
Mark laughs, delighted, while Cathy gives Jayne a knowing look, the quiet solidarity of wives who’ve done this dance too many times.
We mingle.
I engage in small talk about new research grants, innovative surgical technology, and recent budget cuts. Jayne nods, smiles, says all the right things. She seems fine, even at ease until…well, Tory.
It’s my fault she stiffens because I brought her name up during our argument, giving her a reason to fuel her unease toward my colleague.
That was a dick move, and I regret it.
“Rhys.” Tory’s in black tonight, elegant and professional.
Compared to my wife, she’s…almost bland. Sure, she’s more my style in how she dressed tonight, but personality-wise, she holds no candle to my wife’s kindness and generosity. Her sharp elbows are fine in the workplace, but not in your home.
“I was wondering when you’d show.” She goes on tiptoe and hugs me.
I keep the touch neutral and pull away as quickly as humanly possible.
“Tory, you remember my wife.” I wrap my hand around Jayne’s waist, almost as if I’m keeping her close, almost as if I’m stopping her from running away from me, from us.
“Of course. Jayne, you look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you, and so do you, Tory,” Jayne says serenely.
There’s a beat, a quiet, razor-thin moment where neither woman looks away. Then Jayne lifts her glass to her lips, the faintest curve of amusement touching her mouth as she melts into me.
Relief loosens my muscles.
She’s mine.
She’s still mine.
Always mine.
Tory turns back to me. “Dr. Berman’s looking for you. He wants to talk about the upcoming rotation schedule.”
“I told him no work talk tonight! I want to enjoy a drink and”—I hold Jayne’s gaze—“my wife.”
“Your drink is half empty, and I’m sure your wife will be fine for a little while without you.” There’s a challenge in her eyes, which I don’t like. Not at fucking all.
“Tory—"
“I’ll tell him you’re on your way.” Her hand brushes my arm as she cuts me off and then moves quickly, disappearing into the crowd.
Jayne’s eyes are on me.
“She’s friendly…and persistent,” Jayne remarks casually but I felt her body stiffen. I hate that.
“She’s an administrator. They’re pushy.” I kiss her forehead. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
Her smile is shy, and there’s a flush in her cheeks.
The string quartet shifts into something softer as the speeches begin.
We begin with Tory’s boss introducing a donor who is discussing the new cardiac wing, which I’ve been working hard to make a reality. I should be listening, but all I can focus on is Jayne beside me, standing perfectly still, her profile illuminated by the chandelier’s glow.
Do people look at us and think, “There’s the perfect couple?” The brilliant surgeon and his poised, supportive wife. Or do they know that we’re holding on to one another by a thread?
No.
No way.
I am a brilliant surgeon. She is a poised and supportive wife. These are facts.
The speech ends, the applause starts, and the announcer directs us to our tables.
I keep a hand on the small of Jayne’s back, and she leans just slightly into me.
There’s an intimacy between us born of years together—of sleeping side by side and waking up in the same light, of falling sick and being cared for, of holding brand-new life in our hands that we made together, of dreaming together.
We’re made for each other. I know it all the way deep in my soul. I’ve always known there can be no one but Jayne for me. We may be struggling now, but we’ll work through it. I have to believe it, otherwise I’m not sure how to breathe.
We’re seated near the front, one of the honor tables, which basically means a better view of the stage.
The round tables are dressed in white linen and gold flatware, centerpieces of lilies and eucalyptus glowing under the chandeliers. The scent of wax and flowers mixes with truffle oil and roasted lamb.
I’m seated between Jayne and Tory. Not my doing, the event planner’s, apparently. It should be fine. It is fine.
“How did the bypass go this morning?” Tory turns to me with her bright, open smile. “I heard it ran long.”
“Longer than expected.” I smile at Jayne. “I told you about the graft I had to do this morning.”
“I hear it held beautifully,” Tory interjects, leaning slightly, her perfume faintly floral. “You always pull it off in the end.”
Jayne reaches for her wine glass. I glance at her, trying to pull her into the conversation again. “It’s my wife who helps me pull it off.”
Jayne’s eyes widen at the compliment and then fill with disbelief.
Does she think I’m performing?
I’m not. I do believe that Jayne keeping the home front secure means I can do more at the hospital, but lately she’s been asking me to do more and more at home, that’s been fucking with my schedule and my mood.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Tory drawls. “You two are basically the blueprint for a successful surgeon couple. Everyone knows that.”
She laughs softly, touches her napkin, and flicks her eyes toward me.
Jayne doesn’t say anything, just swirls her wine, a polite half-smile frozen on her face.
Dinner arrives.
A strawberry spinach salad, followed by seared duck with blackberry reduction, tiny fingerling potatoes, and wilted greens.
Each course comes with wine, which is why we didn’t drive and took an Uber.
Across the table, Wood McHayle, who heads neuro, is already a few glasses in, telling an overlong story about a patient who mistook an ultrasound wand for a taser.
His wife, Shayna, rolls her eyes as if bored out of her skull and turns toward Jayne.
They’ve met several times at events just like this.
“Do you still work at that law firm, Jayne?” Shayna asks, her voice loud enough to stifle the sound of her husband speaking.
“Cole her jaw is tight.
And I sit there between them—smiling when I’m supposed to, nodding when spoken to—feeling the night slipping out from under me.
I came here wanting to show the world what a strong couple we still were. Instead, somewhere between the speeches and the small talk, the distance between us has stretched again.
Invisible and absolute…at the best table in the best room in Baltimore.