“She’s friendly…andpersistent,” Jayne remarks casually but I felt her body stiffen. I hate that.
“She’s an administrator. They’re pushy.” I kiss her forehead. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
Her smile is shy, and there’s a flush in her cheeks.
The string quartet shifts into something softer as the speeches begin.
We begin with Tory’s boss introducing a donor who is discussing the new cardiac wing, which I’ve been working hard to make a reality. I should be listening, but all I can focus on is Jayne beside me, standing perfectly still, her profile illuminated by the chandelier’s glow.
Do people look at us and think, “There’s the perfectcouple?” The brilliant surgeon and his poised, supportive wife. Or do they know that we’re holding on to one another by a thread?
No.
No way.
Iama brilliant surgeon. Sheisa poised and supportive wife. These are facts.
The speech ends, the applause starts, and the announcer directs us to our tables.
I keep a hand on the small of Jayne’s back, and she leans just slightly into me. There’s an intimacy between us born of years together—of sleeping side by side and waking up in the same light, of falling sick and being cared for, of holding brand-new life in our hands that we made together, ofdreamingtogether.
We’re made for each other. I know it all the way deep in my soul. I’ve always known there can be no one but Jayne for me. We may be struggling now, but we’ll work through it. I have to believe it, otherwise I’m not sure how to breathe.
We’re seated near the front, one of thehonor tables, which basically means a better view of the stage.
The round tables are dressed in white linen and gold flatware, centerpieces of lilies and eucalyptus glowing under the chandeliers. The scent of wax and flowers mixes with truffle oil and roasted lamb.
I’m seated between Jayne and Tory. Not my doing, the event planner’s, apparently. It should be fine. Itisfine.
“How did the bypass go this morning?” Tory turns to me with her bright, open smile. “I heard it ran long.”
“Longer than expected.” I smile at Jayne. “I told you about the graft I had to do this morning.”
“I hear it held beautifully,” Tory interjects, leaning slightly, her perfume faintly floral. “You always pull it off in the end.”
Jayne reaches for her wine glass. I glance at her, trying to pull her into the conversation again. “It’s my wife who helps me pull it off.”
Jayne’s eyes widen at the compliment and then fill with disbelief.
Does she think I’m performing?
I’m not. I do believe that Jayne keeping the home front secure means I can do more at the hospital, but lately she’s been asking me to do more and more at home, that’s been fucking with my schedule and my mood.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Tory drawls. “You two are basically the blueprint for a successful surgeon couple. Everyone knows that.”
She laughs softly, touches her napkin, and flicks her eyes toward me.
Jayne doesn’t say anything, just swirls her wine, a polite half-smile frozen on her face.
Dinner arrives.
A strawberry spinach salad, followed by seared duck with blackberry reduction, tiny fingerling potatoes, and wiltedgreens.
Each course comes with wine, which is why we didn’t drive and took an Uber.
Across the table, Wood McHayle, who heads neuro, is already a few glasses in, telling an overlong story about a patient who mistook an ultrasound wand for a taser. His wife, Shayna, rolls her eyes as if bored out of her skull and turns toward Jayne. They’ve met several times at events just like this.
“Do you still work at that law firm, Jayne?” Shayna asks, her voice loud enough to stifle the sound of her husband speaking.
