Chapter 8
Rhys
The respite of making love and finding peace in my marriage came to an end on Sunday.
I blew up.
But then Jayne never does. She just says things that make me lose my temper.
This time, it was a remark about how I was going hiking with Paul and some friends while she would be schlepping the kids around for various activities and a birthday party.
Her exact words were, “Have fun, Rhys.”
“You going to be okay?” I was trying to be considerate.
“Of course.” Her response was nonchalant. “I just have drop-off and pick-up duty all day…and I need to bake cookies for Finn’s team to get together.”
That got my back up. “Do you want me not to go hiking?”
She gave me a confused look. “Why?”
“If you’re having duty all day, then maybe I should pitch in,” I snapped.
She kept looking confused, which pissed me off even more.
“Come on, Jayne, are you trying to make me feel guilty for taking a fucking day to myself?”
“Rhys…you asked if I was going to be okay, and I—”
“Do you want me to help you?”
She looked aghast, and I knew I’d lost the plot. This was on me. I was transferring my guilt for not helping onto her when she supposedly accused me of not helping.
Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with me?
“No!” I saw hurt in her eyes. That gutted me, compounded the guilt.
“Dad, why don’t you just go?” This came from Finn, who looked at me like I was the villain in his mother’s story. “We’re all going to be just fine.”
I left, angry.
I came back angrier.
Paul hadn’t been on my side, so to speak, when we talked about why my mood was off.
He’s one of my oldest friends, and usually I feel safe when I talk to him about feelings, which is not very often; in fact, I rarely do. He was entirely on Jayne’s side. Which was why by the time we got to bed, I was spoiling for an argument.
I lay stewing while she took her shower, and I was ready for her when her head hit her pillow. “Can you stop pitting my son against me?”
“What?”
“Finn is being disrespectful.” That wasn’t the entire truth. He was holding up a mirror, and I was—fuck—failing as a father, as a husband.
“I’ll talk to Finn,” Jayne said hesitantly.
“He’s my son. I can talk to him.”
What was wrong with me? Why was I getting so defensive?
“Then do so,” she retorted, and that was the first time I heard her irritation.
“Jayne, I have a right, don’t I, to take a day off after working a sixty-hour week?”
She met my eyes with something close to a sneer, which I’d never seen before. It shook me.
“It’s always about how much you work. How much you do, isn’t it? How about the rest of us mortals, Rhys?”
I shook my head, tired, exhausted, completely drained. This wasn’t how life was supposed to be. My home was supposed to be the place where I could relax, not be a war zone all the time.
“I have an early call, Jayne. I don’t have time for this.”
“You’re the one who started the conversation,” she shot back. “Next time, make sure you have time for it before you do.”
She slept with her back to me.
The next morning, we both pretended nothing had happened—pretended we hadn’t thrown barbs and accusations at each other like knives.
By the time I’m halfway through my day at work, a stress headache pounds steadily, like a drum.
I’ve been at the hospital since before six. Three consults, two rounds, one difficult family meeting. My brain’s on autopilot, fueled by bad coffee and habit.
Maybe that’s why when I finally have a moment to myself in my office—blinds half-drawn against the pale Baltimore light, trying to focus on a patient file—the words swim in front of me.
But I know work stuff, the pressure, the urgency…all of that is normal. But what’s happening at home isn’t. My family is turning against me. My wife and son are annoyed with me. My daughter seems confused by my moods.
I rub the bridge of my nose and stare at the photo on my desk. It’s one of the four of us at Ocean City a few summers ago, sunburned and grinning.
The man in it seems…happy. Nothing like the man who is looking at that photograph. I barely recognize him.
There’s a soft knock at my door.
“Come in,” I say.
Tory steps in, holding a stack of folders and a paper cup of coffee. “I figured you’d need this more than I do.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” I take the cup from her.
She smiles, settling into the chair across from me. “You looked like you were about to code yourself in that meeting earlier.”
“Feels like it.” I open my top drawer, pull out some painkillers, and wash them down with the coffee.
“You okay?” Tory’s voice is full of concern.
I shrug. “It’s just a headache.” Then I chuckle. “I swear, this place is going to kill me before a heart ever does.”
“Oh, Rhys. Do we need to reduce your hours? What can I do to help?”
I raise the coffee cup. “You already are.”
She is. She asks how I am. Asks how she can help. My family does none of that. They keep telling me I’m not good enough because I forget to pick up my kid, because I insist my wife join me for a work event…damn it.
I sip the coffee and glance at her. “What’s up?”
“Nothing urgent.” She smiles softly. “I wanted to go over the rotation schedules, but honestly, you look like you could use a breather more than a meeting.”
“Thanks.”
She studies me for a second. “You weren’t on call this weekend, Rhys. So…what’s going on?”
Nothing serious. Just my home life imploding.
I exhale. “It’s been a long weekend.”
Her brow lifts, careful and curious. “You went hiking with Paul, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, and that turned into a—” I shut up. I don’t want to talk about Jayne or what’s happening at home. But the pressure to say something—anything—is too much, and a sympathetic ear is tempting.
The only other person I’ve talked to about my marriage is Paul, and according to him, it’s all my fault.
How can that be? There are two people in a marriage, right? Both responsible. Both to blame. Right?
And I’m so fucking busy all the time, I barely have time to sleep, how the hell could I have time to piss my wife off?
“My wife’s…angry,” I say finally. “All the time, it feels like. No matter what I do.”
“Angry about what?”
“Everything,” I admit. “The hours, the missed dinners, the hospital gala—you name it. Sometimes I can’t even breathe without it being wrong.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Tory croons softly.
I laugh, humorless. “Yeah, well. Marriage isn’t for the faint of heart.”
She leans forward a little. “You’ve been carrying so much, Rhys. The department, your patients, the politics here…doesn’t Jayne see that?”
“She says she does. But then she’ll say something because I didn’t pick up Finn, or I forgot something at home, or I didn’t answer a text fast enough.”
“All this when you’re working sixteen-hour days.” Her sympathy is a balm.
With the floodgates open, the words just pour out. “Then it was about my going hiking. I needed a fucking break. I’ve given my family everything—the house, the schools, the vacations, the security. And it’s still not enough.”
Tory’s quiet for a beat, then says gently, “Maybe she doesn’t appreciate how rare that is. Most people would kill to have what you’ve built.”
I sigh. “Jayne used to appreciate me…used to be proud of me.”
“And now?”
“Now she looks at me like I’m the enemy.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I feel like a failure half the time. No matter how much I do, it’s never right. She’s always disappointed. I can’t win.” And now my son is looking at me the same way she does.
“She sounds…,” Tory hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “Like she’s resentful. Like maybe she doesn’t realize how lucky she is.”
I should stop this. I should defend Jayne or at least shut my mouth. But the words keep coming—sharp, tired, dangerous.
“She says I don’t help enough. That I’m selfish. But she doesn’t get it, does she? I can’t just clock out of this job. I can’t tell a patient dying on the table to hold on while I go pick up my kid from soccer practice.”
Tory nods slowly. “And she still works full-time, right?”
“Yeah.” I laugh, bitter this time. “She doesn’t need to—not for money. I told her she could stop years ago, but she won’t. Says she loves it. But all it does is make her stressed and angry. It’s like she needs to prove something.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Rhys.”
“It’s…hell right now at home,” I confess.
“You deserve peace, Rhys. You give so much of yourself to everyone else. It’s not selfish to want a little calm when you come home.”
I stare at her, feeling something uncomfortably close to relief, like she’s finally said the thing I’ve been too ashamed to admit.
“I…sometimes I think….”
“What?” she urges.
The words are just there. “That maybe Jayne and I need some time apart.”
As soon as I say it, I know it’s not what I want. I can’t even sleep properly without Jayne.
I’m just…annoyed, right? Just tired. That’s all this is. Right?
The office suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.
Tory holds my gaze for a moment too long before she stands, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll let you get back to work. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the best you can.”
Her perfume lingers in the air after she leaves, as does the ugliness I just spewed about my wife and my marriage.
I tell myself it was nothing—just venting, just conversation.
But a part of me knows I betrayed my marriage vows just now by bitching about my wife to another woman, one who’s clearly interested in me as more than a colleague.
I don’t see her that way, but that doesn’t change the fact that I just spewed bile about my wife… unfairly.
Paul’s right. I’m being an ass. When we sat down for a drink after the hike, I told him what’s been happening at home—not the details, just the highlights. He hadn’t been as sympathetic as Tory.
“You’re drinking your own supply, Rhys. You’re a lifesaver to your patients, but at home, you’re a husband, a father, a man. They don’t give a shit that you can perform a quadruple bypass in your sleep. They don’t want Dr. Prescott. Finn wants his father. Jayne wants her husband.”
I’d ignored him then, waved him off.
But now, as I sit in the mess I just made, venting for sympathy, for validation—for someone to say, “You’re fine, she’s wrong”—I know he’s right.
I fucking hate him for it. Hate myself for it.
I drop my face in both hands.
Get it together, Prescott. Or you’re going to lose your mind—and worse, your wife.