Chapter 29 Jayne
Jayne
Mikaela prances around the living room in her sparkly turquoise leotard, arms slicing through the air as she practices the opening pose of her floor routine.
Her ponytail bounces with every step, and she keeps whispering, “Stick the landing, stick the landing,” like it’s a magic spell.
Her performance starts in an hour.
Rhys is tying the ribbon on her warm-up jacket when his phone buzzes on the counter.
He looks at the screen and pauses.
That’s all it takes, a single beat of hesitation, which I can read like a second language. The tiny shift in his shoulders, the soft exhale.
The hospital.
He picks up the phone.
My chest tightens, the old reflexive fear creeps in, the one born from years of him being yanked away at the slightest emergency, leaving me to smile at the kids and cover the disappointment with a thousand excuses.
“It’s a post-op issue,” Rhys reads the message out loud. “One of my old patients. They want my opinion. Paul is on vacation, and the cardio on call is down with a fever.”
He doesn’t move toward his keys.
He doesn’t slip into surgeon mode.
He just looks at me.
Is he asking for permission? I don’t want that. I don’t want to control his life.
“What are you thinking?” I keep my voice steady.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I want to go in. I’ll always want to go in if it’s a patient. But I told Mikaela I’d be there tonight. And I don’t want to break that promise.”
It feels like a miracle, not because he’s torn, but because he’s telling me he’s torn.
Because he’s not deciding alone.
Because he’s letting me in.
“What if,” I say gently, “you do both?”
His brows lift.
“You go to Camden after her routine,” I continue. “You show up for her. Then you go help them. You don’t have to choose between being a surgeon and being a dad tonight.”
He studies me, like he’s trying to decipher whether I actually mean it.
“You’d be okay with that?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I know how much you care about your patients, Rhys. But…if it’s an emergency and the patient is—”
“It’s not,” he cuts me off. “It’s a consult.”
“Then if no one’s life is on the line….”
Relief flickers through his eyes. “After her routine,” he decides. “After bedtime.”
When he calls Camden back. I stand in the doorway and listen—his voice calm, respectful, boundary-clear.
“Is this emergent?”
He waits and nods.
“No, I don’t think that’s going to affect the outcome.”
Pause.
“The performance is an hour. Yeah, she’ll rock it.” He smiles, voice warm. “I can be there in a few hours. If anything changes, text me.”
Pause.
“No, I don’t have my pager with me.” He laughs at the response to that.
“Send me the images and labs. I don’t have access to the EMR right now.”
After we leave, he doesn’t check his email incessantly. He does not ignore us for his work. He’s present.
And I begin to believe.
At the community center, the bleachers are packed and buzzing with parents, glitter, and the overwhelming scent of chalk and hairspray.
The gym lights glint off the mat like it’s a stage.
When Mikaela walks out, her chin lifted and her eyes scanning the crowd, Rhys stands so fast he nearly elbows the father next to him.
“Right here, Peanut!” he calls out loudly, waving like an idiot. A very sweet, very embarrassing idiot.
She sees him.
Her entire face transforms, bright, open, and full of pure joy.
Her floor music starts. It’s a bright, bubbly remix of This Girl Is on Fire that she had us cut down to exactly ninety seconds.
I’ve heard it on loop for weeks.
I’ve watched her practice on the living room rug, in the hallway, in the backyard, even on the sidewalk once while waiting for Finn’s cleats to be found. She practiced everywhere, pointing her toes, fixing her arms, whispering the counts under her breath: one-and-two, three-four, jump-land.
And now, she steps onto the mat with a fierce expression. Her ponytail swings as she takes her opening pose, fingers spread, back straight.
Then she moves.
Every cartwheel is sharp and clean.
Her turns are tight, pointed toes skimming the mat in perfect rhythm.
Rhys records the whole thing like a proud-dad cliché, zooming, whispering things like “nailed it,” “that’s my girl,” and “look at that form,” under his breath.
Since he’s been taking her to gymnastics class, he’s become wholly invested in it.
When Mikaela hits her hands-to-the-sky finishing pose and holds it, the applause breaks out.
Rhys cheers loud enough that heads turn.
Mikaela waves so hard she almost knocks herself off-balance. He blows kisses her way, and I’m more in love with him than I’ve ever been.
That night, after the kids are in bed, Rhys pulls on his jacket and pauses by the door. “You sure this is okay?”
Oh God! He’s worried that I’ll be upset, that he’ll lose me, and it makes me feel both small and big at the same time. It means he cares; it also means that I’ve taken some of his freedom away. It’s time to give it back.
“Absolutely okay. Go, Dr. Prescott, and save a life.” I kiss his cheek.
He leaves with a big smile on his face.