Chapter 12
Rhys
The next morning, we have coffee together, and she makes me breakfast as she always does, even when I have an early day.
“Jayne—”
“Can we talk tonight?” she says with a wan smile. “Please.”
I’m relieved that she’s postponing whatever is coming. I didn’t sleep well. How could I? I was in the fucking guest room, missing my wife, wondering how long I’ll be missing her, wondering if I’d fucked my marriage up by talking about it with Tory.
Talk about the universe shitting on you—I forget my bandana, and Jayne, the good wife, comes to drop it off, only to hear me tell another woman that she’s a nag.
I understand her anger. I understand that she’s hurt. I’m just not sure what to do about either.
“Will you be home for dinner?” she asks as I’m leaving, and I have to actively stop myself from getting defensive. She’s not criticizing me; she’s not saying you’re never home; she’s just asking a simple question that couples ask each other all the time.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ll be home by dinner. I don’t have any late consults.”
She nods. “Okay.”
She studies me for a second, eyes soft but distant, like she’s looking through me instead of at me.
“Takeout?” I offer, searching for neutral ground. “Ekiben?”
It’s her favorite, and I want to do something, anything, to make it easier for her. It doesn’t seem enough, but that’s the best I can do at six in the morning after a sleepless night.
She actually smiles. “Yeah. Ekiben’s good.”
It’s a small victory. I tuck it away like oxygen.
By the time I get to the hospital, the day’s already chewing me up. Rounds, a post-op debrief, a staff meeting that could’ve been an email. I’m in surgeon mode, but my head is at home.
Is everything going to be okay?
When did our marriage get so off track that she asked me to sleep in the guest room?
How can I fix this?
The cafeteria is not serving lunch when I get there, so I grab a coffee and a sad-looking ham and cheese from the vending machine before sinking into a corner table. I barely get two sips in before Tory slides into the seat across from me, her smile wide.
“You’re looking a little rough, Dr. Prescott.” There’s a flirtatious lilt in the way she says doctor.
“Am I?” I ask vaguely, not sure how to feel about Tory. She’s another thing I don’t know how to handle. I know she’s interested in me, and it’s flattering, but I’ve never crossed the line, never will.
Is enjoying her attention wrong?
She tilts her head, that mix of sympathy and curiosity. “What’s going on? Is it still hell at home?”
Her words hit like a misplaced suture. Tiny and sharp, making me realize that, yes, enjoying her attention is wrong. “What?”
She licks her lips. “Well…you said yesterday that things were tough at home.”
I did that, and now she wants to talk more about it. Talk about self-inflicted arrhythmia!
“Things are fine,” I mutter and pick up the sandwich. If I have something in my mouth, maybe I won’t say something dumb to her.
I resist the urge, however, to look around to make sure Jayne isn’t listening to us this time, like my wife is some kind of stalker who’s spying on me.
Christ!
Before Tory can say anything else, thankfully, Paul shows up.
He’s got a bit of a Dr. House vibe going—gray beard, scrubs, gym bag slung over his shoulder, looking ornery as hell. But what you see isn’t what you get. Paul is soft-spoken, thoughtful, and kind.
Unlike me, he’s popular with the residents. I’m told I’m a hard-ass.
Well, fuck, we’re cutting people open and playing with their hearts—this isn’t a drill. So yeah, I’ve got to be a hard-ass.
“Hey, Tory, how’s it going?” He slides in next to me.
“It’s going very well.” Tory glances between me and Paul, her smile slipping a little. “Ah…I have to go. Rhys, we can continue our conversation later. I’m always here for you.”
I give her a blank look and shrug.
Fuck no, I don’t want to talk to her about my marriage or my wife.
And what the fuck does she mean by she’s here for me?
“Well, see you around.” She hesitates, then leaves, her heels clicking down the hall.
I watch her go, a wave of unease creeping up my spine. I regret talking to her freely because now she’s making it sound like it was something intimate we shared.
Good God!
Does she think I was coming on to her yesterday? Was talking about my wife and my marriage some kind of invitation?
Isn’t that what men do when they’re trying to start an affair, use their unhappiness as bait?
That thought fills me with horror.
Paul gives me a measured look. “You okay? You look like you’re about to code.”
I huff out a harsh laugh. “I think I fucked up.”
“What?” Paul dramatically puts a hand to his chest. “The great Dr. Prescott made a mistake? Say it’s not so.”
I roll my eyes. “Cut it out.”
“See you at the gym?”
I nod. “Yeah. I need a couple of hours before I can get there.”
He looks at his watch. “Yeah, me, too.”
After rounds, I hit the hospital gym. It’s open twenty-four-seven because our schedules are all over the place.
I’ve come here at five in the morning, three in the morning, eight at night, and sometimes at noon.
It all depends on my day and how much I need to clear my head.
Even when I’m bone-tired, working out energizes me, gives me the strength to go on and get through a double shift.
The treadmill next to Paul is occupied, so I take another one and maintain a hard, steady pace, as if I’m outrunning chaos.
By the time Paul finds me, I’m already two sets into the bench press, sweat dripping down my temples, the clang of weights punctuating the silence.
He steps up beside me, looping his gym bag over a hook. “You want a spot?”
“Sure,” I grunt, gripping the bar.
He braces behind me as I press up, arms trembling under the weight. My chest burns. My head’s a mess.
“Again,” he says when I rack the bar too soon.
I push through another rep, then sit up, wiping my face with a towel.
“You want to talk?” he prompts.
“Not really,” I huff.
He raises a brow. “You’re about to anyway.”
I blow out a breath, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “Jayne’s pissed. I said some things I shouldn’t have.”
Paul shrugs. “That’s marriage. You’ll say worse, and so will she.”
“I just—” I stop. The words jam in my throat. I grab my water bottle, take a long drink, buying time. “I can’t even talk about it without sounding like an asshole.”
“I already know you’re an asshole.” He loads a plate onto the next bar.
I tell him. Between sets. Between breaths. About Tory. About Jayne overhearing. About the impending conversation or doom awaiting me tonight.
He listens without judgment or interruption.
Just spots me as I lift again.
When I’m done, chest heaving, he tosses me a towel.
“You know, you’ve been Dr. Prescott for so long, you’ve forgotten how to be Rhys.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I groan.
“What do you think it does?”
I scoff. “Claire is the psych, not you, so get to the point, okay?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been married for nearly as long as you have.” He racks his own weights with a sharp clink. “I’ve screwed up every possible way.”
“Claire ever overhear you talking to a woman who flirts with you and makes her insecure that you want out of your marriage?” I wipe sweat off my forehead.
He lets out a bark of laughter, grabbing a dumbbell and curling it. “Well, not all of us can fuck up like the brilliant Dr. Prescott.”
“True.” I grimace, leaning back on the bench. My shirt clings to me, soaked through. “I’m truly fucked, aren’t I?”
“Pretty much.” He sets the weights down with a controlled thud. “But you’ll live.”
I get back on the bench, and he spots me as I grip the bar again. My arms are screaming, but I push through the burn.
“Claire and I fight like hell, you know that,” he says between counts.
I grumble, the bar shaking above me. “I know.”
Their fights are legendary screaming matches, but I’ve never seen a couple so in sync as Paul and Claire.
He watches my form. “Thing is, we never stop talking. We can be halfway through an argument and still tell each other we’re hungry, and then there’s the makeup sex. Don’t knock that.”
I rack the bar, breathing hard. “Jayne and I used to have makeup sex,” I pant, grabbing the towel from my neck. “But then we stopped fighting. Now we just…simmer all the time.”
Paul lies back down on the bench.
I step behind him, spotting.
“That’s the danger zone.” He starts to lift. “The stretches where you stop being a team and start being opponents who don’t even argue anymore.”
I nod, eyes on the bar as he presses it up. “The key is to remember that when you fight with your partner, it’s not a competition.”
I grip the bar as he finishes his rep and racks it with a clank. “Yeah! Tell that to the guy who thinks he’s losing every argument.”
Paul sits up, grabbing his towel, sweat running down his temple.
“Then stop treating your interactions with her like a sparring match, Prescott.” He looks me dead in the eye, a challenge in his demeanor. “You’re not supposed to win. You’re supposed to connect. Not everything is about being right.”
I stare down at my hands, flexing them. They’re shaking slightly. “My dad never saw it that way. Everything was a test with him. Grades, sports, med school—if I wasn’t the best, I was worthless. I thought he was a shit father and husband. And now…I feel like him.”
A flicker of compassion crosses Paul’s face. “You’re nothing like your asshole father, Rhys. You’re a good man. A little arrogant and a damn workaholic, but not a man who makes others feel small.”
“Don’t I?” I remember how sad Jayne looked when she told me how hurt she was. “I make Jayne feel like she has to shrink to make room for me.”
“You and she are going to talk and you’re going to connect and…it’s going to get better.” He slaps my shoulder. “Just remember that you can’t fix a marriage like you fix an artery.”
“Hell! That I can do with my eyes closed.”
“Yeah! Anatomies are far less complicated than emotions,” he agrees.