Chapter 34
Rhys
Eighteen years married. Twenty-one together.
Not just technically-still-together made it. Actually-choosing-each-other made it.
“Dad!” Mikaela’s voice barrels in from the hallway. “You’re burning the onions!”
I jerk back to the stove. “They’re caramelizing. It’s called flavor.”
She appears in the doorway, ponytail crooked, flour on her cheek, hands on her hips. “They’re smoking like the building’s gonna catch on fire.”
“Yeah, Dad, that’s not flavor, that’s arson.” Finn leans around his sister. “Need me to call 911, Dr. Prescott? Or Mom?”
“Out,” I tell them, grabbing the wooden spoon. “Both of you. Chef at work.”
The onions are fine. Maybe a little aggressive, but fine.
I stir them down into the pan, letting the butter and olive oil mellow the edges, before tossing in garlic and thyme. The kitchen starts to smell like actual food and not a structural hazard.
Jayne’s favorite meal: lemon-thyme roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and garlicky green beans. With proper, grown-up gravy that doesn’t come from a packet. I made it once during my sabbatical, and she made a noise at the first bite that I want to hear again.
I slide the chicken into the oven and turn to face my children, who are still in the doorway, clearly not planning to go anywhere.
“I thought I told you two to work on the cake.”
“We are working on it,” Mikaela says, very offended. “We’re letting it cool so we can frost it.”
Finn snorts. “She’s letting it cool because she forgot to grease the pan, and we had to excavate it in chunks.”
Mikaela gasps. “Traitor!”
I look at the cake that’s sitting at the far end of the counter. “So, it’s a…deconstructed cake?” I fight a smile.
Finn grins. “Exactly. Like on those fancy shows where they pretend it’s on purpose.”
Mikaela recovers fast. “It’s rustic. Like your pancakes.”
“And you both were giving me a hard time about my onions.” I shake my head in mock disgust.
They both roll their eyes in perfect sibling harmony.
Six months back at Camden, and somehow the four of us are still doing this—bickering, laughing, cooking in the same room without it turning into a war zone.
It’s not magic.
It’s boundaries.
It’s logistics.
I only take one weekend a month on-call now.
No more back-to-back seventy-hour weeks.
No more “I’ll just swing by the hospital” on a random Tuesday night unless it’s a true emergency.
If I’m in the OR late, it’s because something is truly on fire. Not because I couldn’t say no to a committee meeting.
As I told Paul, there are other cardiologists, but I’m the only father my kids have, and the only husband my wife has, and I’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
That is why we now schedule time together as a family on Sunday evenings at the kitchen table.
Jayne, with her laptop open to her firm’s calendar, me with my Camden schedule, Mikaela adding sticker stars to the whiteboard for anything involving gymnastics, Finn showing off that now that he has a learner’s permit, he doesn’t need one of us to pick him up, he just needs one of us to give him our car.
We check in with each other. We actually talk. We’re honest with one another.
It’s wild.
And, yes, the whiteboard is still in the kitchen. Still color coordinated. The team members are now mostly compliant.
“Dad?” Mikaela says, dragging me out of my head. She points to the tapered candles on the dining table. “Can I light the candles?”
“On the table, yes,” I say. “On your brother, no.”
Mikaela sticks her tongue out at me. “You’re not funny.”
“Yes, I am,” I protest. “Your mother thinks I am.”
“Mom laughs at your jokes because she loves you,” Finn says mischievously. “We laugh because we’re worried.”
Mikaela snickers and ducks back toward the living room.
“Frost the damn cake,” I repeat, pointing the spoon like a weapon.
“It needs to cool down,” Mikaela insists.
Finn pauses, expression softening for a second. “She’s gonna love this, you know.”
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “Yeah. I really hope so.”
He nods, like we’ve just made some solemn pact, then disappears after his sister into the dining room.
I finish basting the chicken and glance at the clock.
Jayne texted twenty minutes ago: Be home by seven, latest. Daniel says Happy Anniversary and that if you mess this up, he’ll let me play cougar.
I wrote back: Tell Daniel I’ve located a nice spot to bury him in the backyard. With love, your husband.
The truth is, I don’t actually want to bury him anymore.
Not…all the time, anyway, but that’s only because he was there for Jayne when I wasn’t. And I’m grateful for that.
As for Tory, she’s gone. Left Camden for some shiny academic post in Philly four months ago. I haven’t seen her since Dr. Lin’s dinner, when Jayne verbally bitch-slapped her with such elegance I almost proposed again on the spot.
My phone buzzes.
Iris: 3rd date tonight. He reads books that aren’t about crypto and remembered my coffee order. Is this…growth?
I grin and type back one-handed while fishing out the green beans.
Me: If he survives your sarcasm for three dates, it’s basically a long-term relationship. Proud of you.
Iris: I can’t believe we’ve become friends. Don’t screw up tonight. She loves you so much, you idiot.
I can hardly believe it myself, but Iris adores Jayne and—now that I’m finally behaving—she actually likes me, when before she mostly just tolerated my existence.
I glance at the oven door, at the table set with the good plates and cloth napkins Jayne only busts out for special occasions. The whole setup screams trying too hard, and I’m okay with that.
I check the potatoes, finish the beans, and am pulling the chicken from the oven when I hear the garage door open.
The kids bolt in from the living room like someone fired a starting gun.
“She’s here!” Mikaela hisses.
“And you still haven’t frosted the cake,” I inform them.
“You keep her busy with wine and food, and we’ll take care of it,” Mikaela says with confidence that I don’t share at all.
Good thing I have a pecan pie in the fridge that I picked up at the bakery. Jayne would pick pie over cake any day, and twice on Sundays.
“No one say anything cheesy,” Finn orders. “Dad’s got that covered.”
I swat him on the back of the head with the dish towel. “Respect the chef.”
Jayne steps into the kitchen, toeing off her heels, hair slightly mussed from the summer humidity, blazer draped over one arm.
She’s still in her COO armor—silky blouse, sharp slacks, the faint tiredness around her eyes that comes from shepherding a firm of a hundred and something people through a merger.
To me, she looks like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She freezes when she takes it all in—the table, the candles, the kids barely containing themselves, the smell of roast chicken and lemon.
“What…is all this?” she asks, a little hoarse.
Finn clears his throat. “Happy anniversary, Mom.”
Mikaela practically bounces in place. “We made cake! It’s abstract!”
“It’s unfrosted and deconstructed,” I explain.
Jayne laughs, the sound catching and breaking a little. Her eyes shine. “Oh my God.”
I wipe my hands on a towel and cross to her, heart pounding like I’m about to scrub in for some impossible case.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“Hey,” she echoes.
I kiss her. Soft. Familiar. Home.
She leans into me, one hand finding the back of my neck, and for a second, we’re not COO and surgeon and parents and logistics managers. We’re just Rhys and Jayne, two dumb kids who decided to build a life together without having a clue what that meant.
Finn groans. “Okay, please. There are children present.”
Mikaela claps her hands over her eyes. “My retinas!”
Jayne pulls back, laughing against my mouth. “We’re embarrassing them.”
“Good,” I murmur. “It’ll build character.”
We eat at the table, candles flickering and music low, some playlist Mikaela made that swings wildly from Beyoncé to old 90s R&B Iris corrupted her with.
“These potatoes are so good,” Jayne says around a bite. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
“He leveled up,” Finn says somberly. “He’s like Rhys 2.0.”
“I’m a limited-edition upgrade.” I hold up my wine glass. “Available for a small monthly fee and routine praise.”
Mikaela points her fork at him. “But you still forget things all the time, Daddy.”
Jayne laughs. “He’s allowed a few glitches. The software’s still new.”
We talk about everything and nothing.
The latest ridiculous thing Mikaela’s gymnastics coach said.
Finn’s upcoming SAT prep.
Daniel’s latest “emergency” email about furniture delivery.
Claire’s obsession with getting us all into couples’ board game nights.
“Absolutely not.” I set my silverware down. I am stuffed. “Jayne, you’re already too competitive.”
Finn snorts. “You flipped the Monopoly board last time, Dad.”
“It was rigged.”
“Nothing rigged about it. You landed on Boardwalk with a hotel and had no money to pay me,” Mikaela chimes in.
“Exactly.” I wave a finger. “Statistically improbable and therefore suspicious.”
The kids shake their heads in tandem.
When we’re too full to manage another bite, Mikaela drags out the cake. It’s lopsided, the frosting’s patchy, and there’s definitely more sprinkles on the plate than on the cake itself.
The number eighteen is made out crookedly in mini chocolate chips.
“It’s beautiful,” Jayne breathes.
“Rustic,” Finn corrects.
“Artisanal,” I add.
Mikaela lights the candles that are also the number eighteen on the cake.
“Make a wish!” she instructs.
Jayne looks at me over the candles. “I already got mine.”
I feel it like a punch. I lay my hand on hers and squeeze.
We blow out the candles together.
When Mikaela starts hacking pieces of the cake, I whisper to Jayne, “There’s pecan pie in the fridge if this is inedible.”
“I can hear you,” Mikaela grumbles.
“You can have pie, too,” I offer with a wink.
She scowls at me.
Later, after the dishwashing chaos and the frosting cleanup, after the kids go to bed and the candles have burned low, with the kitchen still smelling faintly of lemon and sugar, I take Jayne’s hand and gently tug her toward the living room.
“What?” she asks, amused.
“Dance with me, baby.”
“There’s no music.”
“I’ve got that covered.”
I thumb my phone, and a familiar beat fills the room.
En Vogue’s Don’t Let Go.
Her eyes widen, then soften.
“We danced to it in that crappy apartment with the broken radiator,” I remind her.
“It was noisy as all get out.” She steps into my arms, fits like she was made for me. “It rattled, but it was functional.”
“Just like us.” I kiss her nose.
“We were so young.” She looks up at me, her eyes filled with love.
“We still are.” I swing her around.
She laughs.
As the song plays, we sway like we did when we were seventeen and thought love alone could fix anything.
“Eighteen years,” she murmurs. “Can you believe it?”
“Some days.” I breathe her in. “Some days I still think we’re twenty-one and stupid.”
“We were never stupid. Na?ve, maybe. But we did the best we could with what we knew.”
I pull away so I can see her face. “And now?”
She tilts her head back and holds my gaze. “Now we know better. So, we’re doing better.”
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not for the first time, not for the last.
“I know.” She reaches up, cups my face in both hands. “And I forgive you. Not because I’m some saint. Because I choose to. Because you chose us. Over and over again, even when it was hard. Even when we were falling apart.”
I rest my forehead against hers. “I’m going to screw up again.”
“Me too,” she admits. “But now we talk. We pause. We fix it before it breaks.”
I huff out a laugh. “Pausing. Who knew that would be the big lesson of my life?”
“Pauses are underrated, Dr. Prescott.”
“And they’re sexy,” I add.
She snorts. “Let’s not push it.”
We sway through the chorus, the lyrics wrapping around us like a blessing and a dare.
Don’t let go.
“I’m proud of you,” I tell her. “Of what you’ve built at the firm. Of how you took that COO role and owned it. Of how you still come home and somehow manage to remember Mikaela’s meet schedule and Finn’s essay deadlines.”
“I’m proud of you,” she counters. “For going back to Camden on your terms. For saying no when you need to. For being here. For learning how to stay.”
We fall silent again, listening to the song and to our home that’s not waiting to explode anymore.
This is what partnership looks like.
Two tired, stubborn people who almost lost each other, choosing, over and over, not to.
I kiss her soft and slow like we have all the time in the world, which we do. “Happy anniversary, Mrs. Prescott.”
“Happy anniversary, Dr. Prescott.”
Somewhere upstairs, a door creaks and Mikaela’s voice drifts down.
“Ew, they’re kissing again.”
Finn groans. “Leave them be. Let’s watch a movie on my laptop.”
We hear doors close.
“Our audience disapproves.”
“They’ll live. They come from strong stock.”
She tucks herself back against me as the song winds down.
We keep dancing anyway.
Eighteen years married. Twenty-one together.
Lovemaking.
Heartbreaking.
Soul-shaking.
And we’re still together, and I know it’s forever.
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