Chapter 13
Jayne
Steam rises from the paper boxes, curling through the kitchen with the warm spice of curry tofu, the sweet tang of coconut rice, and the umami scent of crispy tempura.
“Mom, can we eat this every day?” Mikaela asks, already scooping a heap of rice onto a fork.
Rhys laughs. It’s easy with none of the clipped politeness we’ve been living on.
“Kid,” he says, grinning, “if I ate this every day, I’d have to book my own cardiac consult.”
“Dr. Prescott, heal thyself,” I tease. For a second, his eyes light up the way they used to.
Mikaela’s hair is piled in a messy ponytail, a streak of soy sauce on her cheek. She dips a tempura broccoli into the sauce, coating her fingers.
“You’ve got sauce all over your face.” Finn reaches across to wipe it off.
“I can do it,” she insists, grabbing the napkin from him.
“You sure about that?” He grins and steals a carrot tempura from her plate.
“Carrot’s my favorite!” she complains, smacking his shoulder.
Without a word, Rhys slides the two carrot tempuras from his plate onto hers.
“See?” Mikaela declares triumphantly. “You took one, but now I have two.”
Finn rolls his eyes. “Dad, she played you.”
“She sure did.” Rhys leans back in his chair, relaxed for once, watching us with contentment.
The evening continues to be pleasant. It’s almost like the old times, before we started walking around each other like landmines.
Finn launches into a blow-by-blow of his last soccer game, complete with sound effects and dramatic reenactments of “the worst ref call in history.”
“I’m never quitting soccer,” he declares. “I’m going pro. Just watch.”
“Well, I’m never quitting gymnastics,” Mikaela chimes in. “I’m going to do cartwheels forever, even when I’m old. Like forty.”
“Wow, thanks,” I remark dryly.
She grins, unbothered. “You know what I mean, Mom.”
When dinner’s done, Rhys starts clearing the table and waves off Finn’s offer to help.
“You sure you know how to do that?” Finn asks, one eyebrow raised.
For a second, I hold my breath, half-expecting Rhys to snap back. Finn’s tone is light, but the jab lands—the quiet reminder that his father isn’t usually the one doing this.
“Doctor at work, dishwasher at home,” Rhys jokes. “It’s called range.”
“Wow,” Finn deadpans. “Dad’s funny now.”
“I’ve always been funny.” Rhys throws a balled-up napkin at him, and it bounces off Finn’s shoulder. “Ask your mother.”
I hold my hands up, palms out, relieved that no one has blown up. “I plead the fifth.”
Rhys keeps watching me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
There’s a soft, uncertain look on his face—one I know intimately.
It’s the same expression he used to have during those thirty-hour med school shifts when I’d show up with sandwiches and bad coffee.
Like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
A dinner can’t solve everything. I know that. And I know I need to talk to him tonight—honestly, clearly, without hiding behind exhaustion or fear. The truth is that I’m hopeful, truly so, that we’re going to be alright. Somehow, we’ll maneuver through this.
After the kids are in bed, I make coffee, debating maybe if I should add whiskey to it for the talk we’re going to have, where I have to make myself vulnerable.
When did that become an issue? When did I start to think I need to be strong with my husband?
We take our coffee cups out to the porch. The night is cold, so we both wear our jackets. I even have a blanket over my lap.
Rhys sits beside me on the patio swing. “This is nice.”
“It is.” I sip my coffee, glancing at him. “It’s been a while.”
He nods. “Too long.”
We sway in quiet rhythm. The wooden swing creaks. The air smells of firewood burning.
I take a deep breath. “I need help, Rhys.”
His gaze sharpens. “Okay. Tell me what you need.”
So, I do, pushing down the voice in my head that calls me a complainer.
You’re not nagging, Jayne. You’re asking for help.
I tell him about running nonstop seven days a week, how the weekdays crush me with a hundred small moving parts—drop-offs, deadlines, dinners that somehow don’t make themselves.
How I’m always chasing something I or someone else has forgotten.
How every time a schedule shifts, it lands on me to fix it, rearrange it, and make it work.
“Finn’s soccer practice got moved two days ago. I had to rush to pick him up…and hand the client I was in the middle of speaking with over to Daniel.”
“You called when that happened.” He’s not defensive at all, and that surprises me.
“I did.”
“I couldn’t take your call.” He sounds as tired as I feel. “I was with a patient’s family. He didn’t make it.”
How do I compete with that?
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. I know he means it.
I push the swing with my feet and drink more coffee, because I don’t know how to continue now.
How do I talk about mundane things like clothes in the dryer and endless grocery lists when he’s talking to people who have lost a family member?
“I should help you more,” he murmurs after a while. “I…there are other cardiac surgeons at Camden, I’m your only husband.”
I jerk my head, give him a long, deliberate look.
Did he just say that? It shows remarkable insight and buoys me.
“I just can’t do it all at home, Rhys. I know you think I should stay home and not work, but I enjoy my job. I want to—”
His hand settles gently on my thigh, and the words catch in my throat. “I know, baby,” he tells me softly. “And I’m sorry for making it sound like your job isn’t important. It is. It matters to you…and what matters to you is important to me.”
He’s saying all the right things, and a part of me is giddy with joy while another is afraid that it’s all a performance. We’ll have a very serious line-in-the-sand talk, and things will be better for a minute, and then it’ll be back to square one.
Stop with the negativity, Jayne. Give him a chance. You know Rhys. He’s not one to just say things he doesn’t mean. And you love him. You know he loves you. You have to have more faith.
“I can pick up Finn on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he continues. “I can move things around, and I’ll take care of Sundays if you can handle Saturdays.”
That’s generous, more than I imagined. It’s fair. It’s reasonable. It’s exactly what I asked for. And yet….
“Are you sure?”
He smiles. “Yes, Jayne, I am very sure.” He cups my cheek. “I’m going to do everything I can to lighten your load.”
That irks me.
Lighten my load? Really? This is our family, and he’s making it sound like he’s magnanimous and is doing me a favor. Resentment bubbles up. I work hard to push it back down.
Stop being petty, Jayne. He’s doing what you want. Give him grace. Give yourself grace.
“Thank you, Rhys.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, uncomfortably bitter.
Why am I thanking him? This is his family, too, isn’t it?
“You’re most welcome,” he replies.
I drink my coffee so as not to say something that will tip this boat we’re on, because the winds around us are stormy enough.
“I am sorry for what you heard me say to Tory.” He takes my free hand in his. “I…if I heard you talk about me that way with Iris, I’d be devastated.”
Hope soars. He’s thought about things. He’s being patient and understanding.
“So, you’re not attracted to her?” I can’t help it. I know we’ve talked about this before, but….
“God no!” He plays with my fingers. “Jesus, Jayne, I fucked up that night when I brought her up. Baby, Tory is inconsequential. Hell, I’m closer to Paul.”
I smile. “Tory is better looking than Paul.”
“Everyone is better looking than Paul.”
We laugh, our hearts lighter. The joy that’s always been buried somewhere under the noise and exhaustion stirs, rising to the surface like it’s been waiting for permission.
His thumb brushes over my fingers. “I love you, Jayne.”
I turn my hand in his and lace our fingers together. “I know.”
After a while, I say, “Come back to bed.”
He glances at me, searching my face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you, Jayne.”
Now, I feel like an idiot for making such a big deal out of how he phrased his offer of help. He’s being sincere, and I’m being…bitter and resentful?
That night, he slips into bed beside me, and his arm finds my waist like it never forgot the way. I melt into him.
The distance we’ve been holding is collapsing in on itself—soft as breath, inevitable as gravity.
He presses a kiss to my temple.
I close my eyes and let myself savor it. Savor him. Savor us, finally on the same wavelength again.
I fall asleep in his arms.
It’s the best night I have after a long stretch of terrible ones.