Chapter 19 Jayne
Jayne
Finn’s at a soccer camp, and Mikaela is at a friend’s for a sleepover.
Normally, I’d relish the quiet in the house. I’d pour a glass of wine, run a bath, maybe watch a show that doesn’t involve cartoon dogs or something blowing up. But tonight, the silence is bright and unforgiving, because Rhys and I have officially run out of places to hide.
I’ve spent the whole day rehearsing in my head the conversation we have to have once he’s home.
I’m going to say everything calmly, without judgment or sarcasm.
I’m going to tell him I’ll be talking to Daniel next week about going on leave.
I’ll be cool. Rational. The grown-up in the room.
Except…I no longer want to be reasonable.
Because somewhere between “I’m trying” and “I’ll do better,” my husband has stopped being my partner.
He’s performing our marriage the way he performs surgery, with steady hands, flawless technique, and absolutely no emotions. And I keep wondering, if I remove my job from the equation, will everything magically work again?
But…I already know the answer.
It won’t.
Because this is not about my job.
This is about us.
This is about how I feel that Rhys does not value me.
This is about how I’ve chipped away at myself, day after day, until bitterness started filling the empty spaces.
This is about how invisible I’ve become and how loud I’ve started to be just to prove I’m still here.
I’ve turned into that wife.
The one who nags.
The one who pouts.
The one who picks a fight because she doesn’t know how else to be seen.
I don’t want to be her.
And now that I recognize her in the mirror, I refuse to keep becoming her.
We’re broken. I get that. But I’m tired of trying to glue us back together when he won’t even admit we’re cracked.
The rumble of the garage door opening makes my stomach twist.
I set my wineglass down on the dining table and take a deep breath.
Rhys walks in a minute later, looking like he’s been through a war, exhaustion stamped on every line of his face.
“Hey.” He drops his keys and coat at the door and comes closer, brushes his lips against mine.
“You need a shower?” I ask bluntly.
He frowns. “What?”
“Ah…if you need a shower, go ahead and take it.”
“Baby, what’s going on?”
What am I doing? This isn’t calm and rational. This is me being batshit weird.
I swallow. “I have something to tell you.”
He sets a chair at an angle beside mine and lowers himself into it, the air between us as tense as a courtroom before the verdict.
I cross my arms. “How’s Tory?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Tory.” I enunciate every syllable. “How is she?”
His jaw tightens. “Jayne—”
“Did she comfort you today? Tell you how misunderstood you are?”
“What’s this about?”
The hell if I know!
“You know, you told me how you told her what she was doing was inappropriate?”
He nods hesitantly. “Yeah.”
“The way you said it was like you thought you deserved a medal for it.”
What is wrong with me? This is not what I want to say. Why are these words coming out of my mouth?
His eyes flash. “I told you because I wanted to be honest. I didn’t have to tell you—”
“But you did,” I cut in. “Like you’re some kind of hero.”
I can’t believe the venom pouring out of me. I’m picking a fight. All my hopes of having a cool, calm conversation are out the window. What do they say, hurt people hurt people?
Well, shit, I’m a gaping wound.
He exhales, long and shaky. “Baby….”
I didn’t even know this Tory business was brewing inside of me, building to this point. But there are so many things that are issues between us that it’s a pick-and-choose smorgasbord.
“You told her things about us that you’ve never said to me. You gave her pieces of our marriage like they were scraps you didn’t need.”
“Jayne, you’re not being fair.”
“Nothing about this is fair!” The words crack out of me, loud enough to make the air vibrate. “You’re never home, and when you are, you’re somewhere else in your head. I’m tired of being your afterthought. Of pretending that your exhaustion is a love language.”
He stares at me like I’ve just drawn blood. “I’m trying. I’ve been trying. I’ve changed my schedule, I pick up Finn, I come home for dinner, I’m—”
“You’re managing logistics,” I say, cutting him off. “Not a marriage. And you’re dropping the ball half the time.”
“Baby, I am sorry about that. So sorry.”
The way he says it is so genuine that the heat in me dissipates.
“I didn’t want to talk to you like this,” I whisper, shoulders slumped. “I wanted to…I wanted to be calm. I’m…sorry.”
There’s a flicker of something broken in his eyes, and I feel an answering clench in my chest.
“Don’t apologize, Jayne. I hurt you. I know that. I am sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.” All the fight has drained out of me. “I…look, what I wanted to say was that I’m going to talk to Daniel next week and…quit.”
“No!”
My eyes widen, unsure where this is going. “No?”
“No, baby. I don’t want you to give up one more thing.”
I draw in an unsteady breath. “Rhys, we can’t go on like this.”
He takes my hands in his. “I know.”
“Then—”
“I’ll do better.” He squeezes my hands. “I promise.”
I know he believes it, but I don’t. He’ll get busy, and we’ll be back here.
“Rhys, relying on you and then not getting support is much harder than just doing it myself, knowing there won’t be support.” I don’t want to hurt him, but this is the truth.
“Please, Jayne.”
“Please what, Rhys?” I pull my hands away, despair encroaching into every part of me. This is not living. This constant anger. This constant bitterness. This constant war. I want…no, I need peace.
“Give me another chance.”
I shake my head, bereft. “To do what?”
“To be a better husband.”
I hate that I’m forcing him to say these things. I hate that I can’t tell him he’s a good husband—because he isn’t. Not right now. And then there’s his job, this impossible, noble thing he does. He literally saves lives. And what do I do? Nothing that feels anywhere near as important.
“I don’t want you to quit your job,” he continues. “You’ve given up so much to make our family successful.”
I look up at him, puzzled. Where is this coming from?
“You gave up being a lawyer. You worked hard, so fucking hard, Jayne, when I was in medical school, when we didn’t have a lot of money. I know that.”
Tears fill my eyes. “If you know that, then why have you made me feel like…nothing?”
His expression twists with raw pain. “Because I was a fool. A selfish fool. I’m going to do better.”
Before I can speak, he holds up his hand. “I know, you’re thinking, I keep saying that and I keep fucking up. I get it. But I need you to trust me.”
“I do trust you, Rhys. This isn’t about that,” I say gently, even though it is about faith, isn’t it? I don’t believe he can live up to either my expectations of him or his expectations of himself.
“It is. And I have failed you time and again. I could barely keep the schedule I promised I’d keep for more than a few weeks. And you’ve been doing it all for years.”
Okay, who is this man, and where the hell is my husband? You know, the one who gets angry. The one who snaps at me when I complain. The one who says he’s too tired for a conversation.
“What do you want?” I’m just this side of desperate because he’s confusing the hell out of me.
“A week. Can you give me a week?”
“To do what?” I ask, exasperated.
“To be there for you.”
I have no idea why he’s saying this, but I’m too drained to figure him out. I shrug. “Fine.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I know you’re thinking I’m spouting bullshit, and I deserve that, but I will make things better.”
I nod, even though I know this is a lost cause.
But I can wait a week before I give my notice to Daniel. I’ll need a few weeks to train my replacement, anyway, so the firm continues to function as smoothly as it does now, but just making the decision, I think, will give me headspace and reduce this incessant pressure I seem to carry.
“Okay.”
He grins now, and I see the boy I used to know. “Have you eaten?”
“I was thinking of drinking my dinner.” I tilt my head to the half-empty wine glass next to me.
“Let’s go out,” he suggests. “The kids are not home. We should treat ourselves.”
I want to turn him down and just go to bed, but that seems petty, especially since he did ask for a week’s reprieve. And I do like the idea of going out to dinner with my husband. To go out on a date with him. It’s been…well, years since we did.
“Sounds good.”
He pulls out his phone. “Great. I’ll make reservations at Charleston.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Charleston? Fancy!”
“We deserve fancy.”
It takes us thirty minutes to get ready. He needs a shower, and I need to rinse the tears and sadness off my face. It takes me longer than him to spruce up, though. When I come downstairs, he’s waiting by the door, freshly showered, shirt crisp, hair still damp around the edges.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
He opens his arms and I step into them. We used to hug all the time. Rhys used to joke that he wanted his endorphin rush—which was his way of saying, hold me close, baby.
He kisses my hair, and I almost forget how heavy tonight started.
At Charleston, we’re seated at a small table near the window, candlelight flickering between us.
Rhys orders grilled lamb chops and pairs it, as the sommelier recommends, with a Chateauneuf-du-Pape. I get my favorite scallops with capers and lemon brown butter, accompanied by a glass of a mineral-rich Soave Classico from Veneto.
When the waiter pours the wine, I glance at Rhys. He’s watching me, but not in the wary, measured way he has lately. There’s something gentler in his gaze. More open.
“Remember our first time here?”
I laugh. “You wore that awful tie with the tiny whales.”
It was shortly after he began his residency at Johns Hopkins. Iris babysat the kids. We were celebrating with an expensive meal we could barely afford.
“You loved that tie,” he insists.
“I tolerated that tie,” I retort.
He chuckles, and the sound wraps around me like a memory of an easier version of us.
Dinner is shockingly nice. Surprisingly peaceful. Unexpectedly romantic.
We talk about the kids.
He tells me about a surgery he did this week — a complex mitral valve repair on a man in his fifties.
“The leaflet was more damaged than the imaging suggested.” His hands move unconsciously in the air, as if he’s still holding the instruments.
“I thought I’d have to convert to a replacement, but when I opened him up…
” His eyes go distant in that surgeon’s way, which I still find mesmerizing.
“The tissue was salvageable. Barely. It took an extra hour, but he’s awake, extubated, and complaining about hospital food, so I’d say that was a win. ”
I smile into my wine. “I always knew you’d figure out how to boss around a heart.”
He taps his napkin against the table. “I don’t boss it around. I negotiate.”
“Uh-huh.”
When he asks about my week, I tell him about the pharmaceutical case that’s been eating up my days.
“The billable hours keep bloating.” I take a sip of the wine. “Opposing counsel keeps asking for extensions they don’t need, sending revised drafts at eleven o’clock at night, just to claim more hours.”
Rhys sets his fork down. “That sounds infuriating.”
“It is.” I smirk. “But also…weirdly fun? I know that sounds terrible. But I like the strategy of it. The chess game. The part where I can predict what they’ll do next.”
His lips tilt into that soft, proud smile he doesn’t realize he gives. “I love it when you talk about work.”
The compliment lands deep, in a place I honestly thought had gone numb. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He leans back in his chair, and there’s quiet affection in his eyes. “I know I’ve said things that make you think otherwise, but I know that you’re the smartest person in most of the rooms you’re in.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I didn’t even go to university, Rhys.”
“Like that guarantees smarts!” He takes a deep breath and exhales. “Do you regret not finishing law school?”
That surprises me. “Sometimes,” I say honestly.
“Would you like to go back?”
I send him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Because I have so much time?”
“No, Jayne, I didn’t mean it like that. I honestly want to know.”
I wait for my old faithful friend, bitterness, to claw up my throat, but it doesn’t come. Rhys is genuinely interested in my answer, and that calls to me.
“Yes, I would like to go back and get my JD.” I spear a cauliflower floret. “But I don’t regret becoming a paralegal. I’ve learned a lot, and at the time, it was the best option for us.”
“I know I don’t say it enough, Jayne, but without you I’d never have amounted to much.”
Is this man reading my mind? I don’t think I’ve felt this seen by him ever before.
“I mean it,” he adds.
I can’t keep the smile off my face. “Thank you.”
We share dessert, a chocolate espresso and mascarpone torte served with an espresso crème anglaise. It’s delicious and decadent. I have it with a Banyuls, La Tour Vieille Reserva, while Rhys orders a double espresso.
He’s driving.
After dessert, he reaches across the table, brushing his thumb over my knuckles.
“I know we’re not okay,” he says quietly. “But tonight…I wanted you to see that we’re still us. Somewhere under all the crap.”
His honesty disarms me.
“I remember,” I whisper. “I just…don’t know if remembering is enough.”
“It won’t be.” His thumb keeps moving in slow, steady circles as he adds cryptically, “But it will still be us.”
Since we both feel like we overate—the dessert was incredibly filling—we walk out onto the waterfront.
The breeze lifts my hair, and the night feels gentler than it did a few hours ago.
Rhys slips his hand into mine, and we stroll together like a couple on a date.