The caption reads:Dr. Rhys Prescott, Chief of Cardiology, with Tory Chehade, Camden’s Administrative Director for Cardiology.
Completely harmless. Obviously.
But Jayne’s hand stills on her wineglass. I catch a flicker of…unease from her. And even though I’m the idiot who dragged Tory’s name into an argument she never belonged in, irritation still sparks inside me at myself for sowing that seed. For creating space for doubt.
Why the hell did I mention Tory that night?
Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?
Is Tory interested in me beyond work? Maybe. Probably. It’s there at times when she’s a bit too familiar with a hand on the shoulder. But I maintain a distance. I’m not interested in Tory or any other woman romantically or sexually.
Tory’s a colleague. A friend. We talk about staffing issues and her dating disasters, and whatever nonsense leadership is pushing next quarter. I talk about my kids. And I talk about Jayne.
I want to lean over now, to touch Jayne’s hand, say something quiet and reassuring. But the applause swells again as the slide changes, and before I can move, Tory reaches for her glass and her arm brushes mine.
Jayne turns away, smiling too brightly as she asks Paul something about Baltimore zoning laws. Her voice is smooth; her jaw is tight.
And I sit there between them—smiling when I’m supposed to, nodding when spoken to—feeling the night slipping out from under me.
I came here wanting to show the world what a strong couple we still were. Instead, somewhere between the speeches and the small talk, the distance between us has stretched again.
Invisible and absolute…at the best table in the best room in Baltimore.
CHAPTER 7
Jayne
The house is quiet when we get home.
The kids are asleep, the dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen, and the only light comes from the hallway lamp that Finn probably left on for us after he did the dishes. I’m lucky to have kids like him and Mikaela. They’re so conscientious and aware that we all live here and we all must contribute. I never have to ask Finn to throw out the trash; he does it without being prompted. I don’t have to tell Mikaela to clean up her things; she just does it.
I kick off my heels by the bedroom door, sighing as my toes finally touch the cool hardwood.
Rhys loosens his tie and exhales like he’s just finished a marathon.
“That went well,” he remarks.
His tone is careful, like I’m a wounded animal whomay spring on him any minute if he says anything that’s just this side of polite.
He’s been doing this all night—walking a tight rope.
And that bitch Tory.Christ! The way she kept brushing against him and talking down to me.
“It did.” I slip off my earrings and put them on the dresser.
“Did you have a good time?”
There’s an edge to his voice that makes this conversation an inquisition. “Does it matter?” I throw over my shoulder as I step into the walk-in closet.
He follows me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Can you unzip me?” I prevaricate.
He does, his hands rigid with tension. “Jayne,” he murmurs, my name loaded with his question.
I meet his eyes, arms crossed. “It means that I don’t think you care if I had a good time or not as long as I was there with you for the sake of appearances.”
I wait for the blow-up, for him to say something hurtful, which is what he does when he gets defensive.
