“I know.” Her voice softens. “You want to be the chill, competent wife who handles shit. You don’t want to be the stereotype.”
“You don’t make it sound like a good thing.”
“It’snota good thing, Jayne! Because while you’re pretending you’re all alright, you’re crying in your own kitchen, and your son sees it.”
My chest tightens. “Did Finn talk to you?”
She doesn’t respond, and I know he did. But she won’t break his confidence.
Aunt Iris is a fixture in my life. Family, even though she technically isn’t. I’m close enough with my real family, but not like this. I’d never call my brother to talk about Rhys, and he’d never call me if he and his wife were having issues. Our parents live in Palm Beach, Florida, and I wouldn’t burden them by complaining about my fabulous surgeon husband. They wouldn’t understand.
As I gather my thoughts, the house makes sounds. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe ticks.
“When I try to talk to him, he doesn’t want to.” My heart folds in on itself. “And just now he wanted to, and I told him I couldn’t.”
“Maybe he’s too tired when you want to talk, and you’re too tired when he does,” Iris suggests.
“When I’m calm and able, he shuts me down,” I complain. “He says he’s tired. He says he doesn’t want to fight.”
“So don’t fight,” she offers. “Talk.”
“You think I haven’t tried?”
“I think you stop when things get uncomfortable,” Iris counters gently. “You protect his peace. You smooth it over. You go, ‘Never mind, I’m fine,’ and change the subject.”
A bitter little laugh escapes me. “Do you have our house bugged?”
She ignores me. “Jayne, you’re allowed to need things. You’re allowed to demand things.”
I pout at her words. “He doesn’t listen.” It’s petty, but with Iris, at least, I can push the blame onto Rhys and take none for myself—not that she lets me get away with it.
There’s a time and place for that—I guess…when I’m venting. Not now, when I’m genuinely looking for advice.
Damn it! I did overreact.
Rhys was just spouting his frustration, as I do, and I went nuclear on him.
Don’t get me wrong, he shouldn’t be talking toher…but would I feel differently if I heard him talking to Paul? How would he feel if he heard meventabout him to Iris?
“Then you keep talking.” Iris yawns. “You force the issue, not as a screaming match or an ambush, but as, ‘This is what’s happening to me. This is how I am living. I need your help in this way.’”
“What if he tells me to go fuck myself?”
“Then that’s information.” I hear the rustle of sheets again—crisis averted, and she’s lying back down. “But right now, you’re guessing what he’ll say and do and hurting yourself twice: once in reality, once in your head.”
I wipe at my eyes. “He said our home is hell.”
“I’m not going to defend that.” I can all but see hershrug. “But I’ll say this: it’s hell for you, too. You both dislike this version of your lives.”
I stare at the ceiling again.
“I told him to sleep in the guest room,” I admit.
“That’s fair.”
“I wanted to tell him to leave,” I confess. “Pack a bag. Go. I almost did.”
“Do you want him gone?”
