Chapter 17 Jayne
Jayne
Eight weeks. That’s how long it took before Rhys fell off the wagon.
It wasn’t some spectacular, explosive headline-worthy event; it was a moment here and a moment there—old habits creeping back in through the cracks we never sealed.
He’s been late three times this week, missing dinner.
He missed Mikaela’s gymnastics once.
He forgot to pick up Finn once—something Finn never told me—and our son ended up getting a ride home with a teammate’s parents.
The difference is that he notices now. He apologizes. But apologies are not going to cut it in the long run, are they?
I’m proud of him for trying as hard as he is, and yet, I’m also bitter, because even though he’s trying, I’m the one who still has to keep the plates spinning. I’m the one who remembers snack day, teacher gifts, bills, and birthdays. He gets points for showing up. I get to say thank you for trying.
By the time he walks in tonight, the kids are in bed, the kitchen’s clean, and I’m bone-tired from work and holding it all together.
“Hey.” He leans to kiss me before he shrugs off his jacket. He looks wrung out. Eyes shadowed, shoulders tense. “You still up?”
“Barely,” I murmur.
He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether to say what he wants to say. “Can we talk?”
There it is. The four-word warning siren of married life.
“Sure,” I agree, though every cell in my body screams no.
He sits across from me at the table. “I need to tell you something that happened today.”
My stomach drops. “Do you want something to drink?” I want a continuance, a brief respite from what he’s going to tell me.
But he just keeps talking. “Tory,” he begins as he rubs the back of his neck.
I suck in a sharp breath.
“She crossed a line. I shut it down. Hard.”
“How…how did she cross the line?”
Did she kiss him? Did he kiss her back? Did they do more than that? Did he touch her? Did he—
“I was talking to her, and she put her hands on me. Like you know, on the arm, and then on my shoulders.”
What the fuck?
“I told her to stop it. That she’s making me uncomfortable.”
Relief makes me want to put my head down on the dining table.
I swallow against the knot in my throat. “And?”
“And?” His eyes darken. “She was a…I’m sorry for using the B word, Jayne, but she was a bitch about it.”
“How?” This wasn’t the direction I thought the conversation would take.
He tells me what happened and what he said, and what she said. It’s blow-by-blow. It’s honest, and he’s seething. He’s angry, more with himself than Tory.
I just stare at him, trying to process.
“Were you…ah…were you tempted?” My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t.
“To slap her?” he asks, and a chuckle bursts out of me.
“Yeah. I was. But you know…can’t hit a woman. Seriously, Jayne, when did being friendly become code for I want to fuck you?”
My lips twitch a little, but I hold back the smile. He’s not charming his way out of this.
He wants a pat on the back for staying true to his marriage? Well, fuck that.
“Is this a good time for me to say I told you so?”
He smirks at me. “Yeah, it’s a good time.”
“You know”—I grin despite myself—“some people would think it’s petty to say that under the circumstances, but I’m happy to let you know that I’m not one of those people.”
Now, his eyes fill with amusement. He hadn’t thought this conversation would go like this either. I understand his surprise. If this were a few weeks ago, I’d have been livid, but his trying so hard is…well, it makes it easier to forgive him.
And how long will this feeling last if you keep resenting him for not showing up, Jayne?
“So, Dr. Prescott, I told you so about Tory, and you were an ass to not believe me.”
He takes my hands in his and kisses them each. “Yes, my love, I was.” He studies me, as if attempting to discern how I really feel. “You’re not angry?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But…I am tired, Rhys.”
He leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. “Jayne, I’m trying. I’m trying to do better, to show up to—”
“I know,” I cut in as I pull away from him. “But trying isn’t the same as being here, Rhys.”
“Jesus, Jayne.” He pushes his chair back, runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t win with you. I tell you the truth, I do the work, I fix what I can, and it’s still not enough.”
So…that went south in a minute, didn’t it? If this is the seesaw our relationship is on, can we succeed?
“I’m not asking you to win.” I clasp my hands together because suddenly I am shaking with fear that our marriage is over. “I’m asking you to be there for me.”
He stands up and looks down at me. His eyes narrow.
“I missed Mikaela’s gymnastics class because I was stuck in a consult.
I was late twice this week because traffic was a nightmare, and once I got pulled into the ER because they had a pile-up on I-95.
I forgot to pick up Finn because a patient coded.
None of it was me goofing off or ignoring you. ”
His words are a slap. Hard. Unrelenting. Unapologetic.
“And do you know who had to pick up the slack, Rhys?” I grit my teeth. “Me. It’s always me.”
I stand, too, because I refuse to let him look down at me like he’s issuing a diagnosis.
“When you missed Mikaela’s gymnastics? I left work early, again, and rescheduled a client meeting I’d been prepping for all week.”
He’s about to speak, probably say something about how he doesn’t have time for this, so I keep at it, not giving him a chance to bail.
“When you were late twice, I shifted everything: dinner, homework, baths, the bedtime routine…all of it. I was juggling two cranky kids and three deadlines because you weren’t sure when you’d walk through the door.”
I step forward and get into his face.
“When you forgot Finn?” My voice goes low, tight. “I didn’t hear it from him. I got a call from one of his teammates’ moms, worried, asking if everything was okay because he’d been waiting alone, and you never showed.”
Guilt swarms his eyes.
Good!
“I left work in the middle of reviewing a brief to figure out where our son was. And when I finally talked to Finn later?” I swallow hard because this one I’m still pissed off about.
“He lied to me. He said you’d told him to get a ride.
He was covering for you, Rhys. Our sixteen-year-old is already learning to lie so you and I won’t argue. ”
“Jayne—”
“No, no, I let you list all your important activities that overshadowed family, so you have to listen to all the ways I had to contort myself to cover for you.” My voice cracks.
“And those missed dinners…well, the kids knew, and I pretended that I understood. They pretended that they didn’t see that I was frustrated as fuck. ”
We stare at each other for a while.
He exhales hard and finally says, “Nothing is ever good enough for you. It never will be, will it?”
“Not with you half-assing it, Rhys,” I shoot back. His eyes brim with sorrow as they meet mine, and guilt tightens my chest. “Rhys—”
“Fuck this, Jayne. You know what, I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight and tomorrow…we can figure our next steps.”
His words strike like a bolt of rage.
I bark out a laugh with no humor in it. “So, you screw up and give me an ultimatum?”
“No, Jayne, you’re the one who has been giving me one for months. I’m just returning the favor.” With that, he walks out.
I stand rooted, unable to think, unable to understand how the hell we went from laughing about Tory to this.
Then I hear the sound of the guest room door closing. It sounds so final.
I collapse onto a dining chair.
My heart’s pounding, but there’s no fight left in me. Just quiet despair that’s devastating.
Something has to give.
And my experience with Rhys tells me that it may have to be me. This is the best he can do, and I need to decide if it’s enough or not. If it’s not enough, I need to let go of him and our marriage.
A sob breaks free. I can’t do that. I love Rhys. I love my family. I’m not going to break us up. No way.
That leaves only one option. I have to bend.
I thought I could have it all, but I realize that I can’t do my job, manage the house, and keep this marriage alive. Maybe the only way to save what’s left of us is to step back from something before it’s too late.
I love my job. I love what it gives to me—purpose, independence, the reminder that I’m more than a wife and mother.
But you love Rhys more. You love your family more, Jayne. If you keep choosing yourself, you’ll lose your husband, and your kids will lose their father.
I press my palms to my eyes, tears slipping out before I can stop them. The kitchen is dim except for the glow over the sink, the dishwasher humming like it’s the only steady thing in this house.
And in that half-dark, with my chest aching and my breath catching, I make a decision I hate.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Daniel.
I’ll go on indefinite leave.
Because I don’t want to lose my marriage. Not without a fight. And if that means I have to be the one to stop running first, I will.