Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
A shley
Twenty-two years later
To call or not to call Liam Wheaton—that is the question.
I’m tempted to flip a coin and let heads or tails determine my fate. Why not? Years of careful consideration, tireless scrutiny, and the weighing of options are what got me here.
Over twenty years ago, Ross Brynn and I left Virginia Beach as a young married couple. Our hopes and dreams were a waiting runway, and our bright, glimmering future was lifting off with a flourish.
Two months ago, however, Ross and I returned as a divorced couple with two deflated teenagers.
The kids and I live with my parents and my deceased granddad’s second wife, Nini. Don’t ask how Mom and Dad got stuck with Nini, the perpetual grouch, but they did.
Ross, who’s renting a three-bedroom apartment nearby, says it’s wasteful for both of us to pay rent, especially since the kids and I can live at my parents’ for free.
I know what you’re thinking. We’re not married anymore, so why am I listening to him?
I don’t have a solid answer for that, but I can say that my urge to stand up to the man I’m no longer married to grows stronger each day. In fact, I think I’m getting very close to doing something about it.
“Open a little wider and tilt your chin to the right,” I urge the dental patient reclined before me. It’s Loretta Sharon, my old piano teacher.
She turns her head just so, giving me—and the overhead light—perfect access to the lower quad I’m working on.
“Nice,” I praise. “Last section, and then we’re all done.”
I love being a dental hygienist. I enjoy nearly everything the job entails—meeting new patients, tracking their conditions as well as their life milestones over the years, and, of course, my favorite part—the dental cleanings. My tools aren’t made of gold or anything, but the stainless-steel collection is like a treasure, helping me swiftly remove plaque and the solidified form of plaque, calculus.
And don’t even get me started on one of the greatest dental tools invented—the ultrasonic. It actually uses soundwaves to break up tartar while simultaneously spraying it off the surface—talk about genius. No matter how thick and deep the buildup, I can get the surface squeaky clean, and that’s more satisfying than I can say.
Sometimes, a patient will have so much buildup that I have to tackle it a quadrant at a time. The upper left at one appointment and the upper right the next. The lowers get divided into two more visits until every tooth and gumline glistens.
Treating problems, often eliminating issues altogether, is rewarding work. It can be the difference between patients keeping their teeth or losing them due to eroded bone structure beneath the gums.
We chat a bit as I floss Loretta’s teeth, me pausing to let her respond before I move back in and ask about things like her husband’s knee replacement, her grandkids’ latest accomplishments, and the craft boutique she opened up on Main. It’s nice to catch up on things from home, even if I am living just outside of the city for now.
At last, I give her a final rinse and apply the fluoride foam treatment—she prefers hot cinnamon. “Dr. Brynn will be in for the final exam and to look over your x-rays,” I tell her with a glance over my shoulder. The panel shows that Room 1 is already flashing for his attention. I peel off my gloves and press Room 3. “There’s just one patient ahead of you. Would you like me to sit you upright while you wait?”
"Sure,” Loretta says. “Thank you.”
I push the toe of my shoe against the foot pedal until she’s sitting upright.
Loretta grabs the magazine resting across her lap and thumbs aimlessly through the pages. “I hope you don’t mind my asking this,” she says with a glance over her shoulder.
My gut churns because I know exactly what she’s going to ask.
“You and Dr. Brynn seem to get along pretty well for a recently-divorced couple.” She chuckles awkwardly. “Do you think there’s a chance you two will…” She drifts off as I shake my head.
“No,” I assure her with a glance to the hallway and then the panel once more. Room 1 is no longer flashing, which means Ross is in there now. “We had an amicable divorce,” I explain, “and when we decided—as a family—to move back to Virginia Beach, Ross said I may as well work for him since he’d already bought into half the practice here.”
The truth is that Ross talked me into it against my better judgment. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel divorced when I still work with him like I did when we were married. It's familiar, at times, the easy groove of a busy workday. But at other times, it’s awkward and forced. I used to be more agreeable. Sure, whatever you say. Sounds great. Good idea. We were a team, after all, and at the office, he was the boss—the one with his name on the door.
But lately, I find myself getting defensive and wanting to snap back or argue.
Loretta shrugs. "Yeah, well, there aren't a whole lot of dental practices around here,” she supposes. “And since Dr. Brynn teamed up with Dr. Bingham, the closest dentist to your folks’ place, you were probably stuck working for one or the other."
This from a sensible woman. A woman far too sensible to work for a man she used to be married to. But the fact is, I had plenty of options.
"Right," I say with a nod.
Loretta holds my gaze. She knows I'm holding back. She sees that I’m weak. I'm the type that gets bulldozed in relationships, and even though my romantic relationship with Ross is a thing of the past, the dynamic remains the same.
"Well, dear, thank you again for the great work.” She looks at my name tag a moment too long while a crease furrows her brow. "If you ever decide you’re ready to date again, you should check out that forty-something singles group. The Wheaton twins go, I hear, since they’re both divorced. Did you know that?"
An image of Liam Wheaton drifts like a dragonfly through the pleasant parts of my mind. Maybe it’s the sign I was waiting for. I should call him and see if he’ll keep his eyes out for a three-bedroom home or apartment; he owns a real estate agency, after all. "I did hear that,” I admit.
"Didn't you used to date the nice one?"
The nice one. It makes me smile. Compared to bad-boy Luke Wheaton, Liam most definitely is the nice one. Or at least, he was . I haven’t spoken to the guy in years.
"Yes," I say, resisting the urge to gush about the fact that he was my first love. And what a first love he was. I'd come to wonder if my relationship with Liam ruined me for every other guy I would date. No one has patience like Liam. No one's as attentive as Liam. And no one knows how to kiss the way he does, or at least, did. I feel a blush rise to my cheeks.
"Hey, Ashley, may I talk to you in my office before you leave?” Ross says, leaning his head through the walkway.
“Okay,” I say. “But we’ll need to make it quick. Martin has that session with his chess coach.”
I glance down at my name tag on the way out of the room. Ashley Chen . Maybe that’s what she was noticing, the fact that I’ve already gone back to my maiden name.
I hurry to the breakroom and contemplate a to-go cup of coffee for the drive home. The smartwatch on my wrist lets out a buzz. If I don’t leave within the next ten minutes, Martin will be late. I stare at the back exit and dare myself to just walk out.
May I talk to you in my office? I don’t like how formally he addresses me here. Sure, he’s technically my boss, but he relishes that authority more than he should.
"Hey, Ross?" I say while stepping into the hallway. He’s leading Loretta to the front desk.
“Bye, Loretta,” he says. “You have a wonderful day. Tell Patrick and the fam hi for me, will you?” His gaze veers toward one of the assistants down the hall, Brenda, a woman in her early thirties who adores Ross. Heck, all the women in the office adore the man besides me.
“Will do,” Loretta beams. “Bye, Ashley.”
I give Loretta a wave, then look back at Ross in time to catch his heated glare.
" Dr. Brynn , Ashley, please address me as Dr. Brynn in the office, not Ross."
The irritation in his tone makes me grit my teeth. "Okay. I have to go, Dr. Brynn. C an we save the chat for tomorrow?"
Andrea, the front desk assistant, bounces by with a pink box full of jumbo cookies, reminding me that the staff meeting is about to take place. At least Ross doesn’t make me go to those.
Ross lifts a fist over his head. “Looks like you’re getting ready to rumble,” he says, referring to the song he plays at the start of each office meeting.
“You know it, Dr. Brynn.”
Once she makes her way up to the front, Ross pins his gaze back on me. "Martin's chess coach can wait.” He breezes past me. “Please step into my office."
Irritated, I spin on one foot and follow him in. Ross takes a seat behind his desk and nods to the open doorway. "Close the door, please."
My eyes widen. "Why?"
"Ashley…" It's his standard way of reprimanding me when I'm exhausting him. She should know better than to question my superior authority, he’s thinking.
I close the door harder than necessary and spin around with my arms folded.
"Have a seat." He motions to one of the free chairs across from his desk.
Nope, that's where I’m drawing the line. I'm not his dog, and he's not going to tell me when and where to sit. No, he’ll just tell you everything else to do, and you'll roll over and do it. The words summon an image of our old, floppy goldendoodle, Shay Shay, who’s no longer with us, sadly. If the kids and I get our own place, though, we could head out to the shelter and get another furry little friend.
When I don’t take a seat, Ross pipes up anyway. “I don't want people to suspect we're bringing marital discord into the office.”
I resist an eye roll. "And why would they suspect that?"
His focus drops to the name tag on my lab coat. "For starters, you refuse to wear the office motto magnet. That shows a lack of support and a sour spirit."
This time I give in to the eye roll. I make a show of sliding my hands into the front pockets. The right pocket holds the cheesy magnet with a broad grin, the words, Dr Brynn for the Grin, printed across the teeth. I slap it onto the empty space on my name tag, which is still fastened along the lapel.
“There, happy?"
His brow furrows as he stares at me like I’m his rebellious child. My eyes wander to the ridiculous corkboard creation Brenda and the other gals made for him. Bright bubble letters along the top spell Brynn’s Beauties. I was supposed to send a selfie to Brenda in time for them to present the gift, but I was fine not being a part of it.
Brenda understood. Ross, on the other hand, insisted I have adequate representation on the board, so he added a horrible printout of my seventh-grade yearbook photo. Forget the fact that the man has access to more recent photos of me than anyone on the planet. He went out of his way to dig up the old photo as a form of punishment. My hair is horrible, my skin is bad, and a massive set of braces makes my chapped lips bulge.
Score one for me, though, because I’m ignoring it. Lucy recently showed me a TikTok about power plays; my nonreaction to his outlandish behavior zaps the power from said behavior. So there.
"It's not just the name tag, Ashley.” His tone is far too serious for the topic. Like a therapist urging a patient to dig deep, look inward, and discover some hidden morsel of truth. “You’ve also refused to put the bumper sticker on the Camry. Why?"
Is he seriously asking this? Uh, geez, maybe it’s because I think the logo is cheesy and narcissistic. Maybe it’s because I'm not married to you anymore, so I’m no longer obligated to be your number-one fan.
I shrug. "I keep forgetting to do it."
"Why don't you do it when you go to the car right now?"
"Because I'm in a hurry, Ross. And the car’s dirty. If I put it on while the car’s dirty, it won't stick."
"Please put that bumper sticker on soon. What helps me helps you. Our paychecks come from the same patients, so can we please act like a team?"
Can we please act like a team is code for can you please support me in making all the decisions and stop trying to have a mind or opinion of your own?
It was a mistake to work here with Ross. I know that, but I just don't know how to fix it without major conflict or upsetting the kids.
“Also,” he adds, "when you refuse to call me Dr. Brynn, I lose a certain level of…” He pauses, and his eyes search for the word like it’s on the walls someplace. I assume he’s about to say importance when he goes in a different direction.
“ Respect from my staff, you see. Plus, your refusal to do so reminds them that we were once married, but now we’re divorced. They might assume we’re secretly feuding."
We’d be not-so-secretly feuding if I had any dignity. But because I simply go along with practically everything the man says, does, or wants, the feuds are few and far between.
"Don't you agree?"
I refold my arms again and nod stiffly. "Yep. Gotta go.” I spin around, fling open the door, and get halfway out of the room when Ross speaks up again.
"I heard you tell Loretta that Martin wants to take piano lessons."
Now I’m really clenching my teeth, and making fists so tight my trimmed nails bite into my skin. This is the one area in our marriage where I don't back down so easily.
"Later.” I rush out of his office and down the hall, briefly waving at the ladies gathered in the waiting room on my way out. Enjoy your dumb meeting, I want to say, but I don’t.
I already know what Ross wants to say about Martin taking piano lessons. He didn't want Martin playing chess, either. Despite the fact that Ross was never athletic himself, he was determined to have a son who excelled in sports.
When none of the options took, Ross figured Martin would change his tune by the time he got to middle school, and then high school. Now that the chances are slipping away, he's probably lecturing Martin more than ever. Not that Martin would dare tell me about it. And Ross would know better than to breach the subject when our highly vocal seventeen-year-old daughter, Lucy, was around. Lucy would put her dad in his place, and then, she’d tell me all about it.
I make a mental note to ask Martin about the subject soon.
Once I get in the car, I can already hear Ross’s hyped-up music blasting. The worst part is that he waits until all of his “beauties” are gathered in the waiting room. Then, he pumps up his jam and shimmies into the room while the ladies cheer. It’s nauseating.
I glance down to see the stupid bumper sticker sitting face up on the seat.
“Brynn for the grin,” I grumble. “How about Ross for the loss?” Loss of dignity and self-respect, to start.
I grab the annoying bumper sticker, flick it onto the floorboard, where it lands facedown, and bask in the momentary satisfaction.