Does she think I was coming on to her yesterday? Was talking about my wife and my marriage some kind of invitation?
Isn’t that what men do when they’re trying to startan affair, use their unhappiness as bait?
That thought fills me with horror.
Paul gives me a measured look. “You okay? You look like you’re about to code.”
I huff out a harsh laugh. “I think I fucked up.”
“What?” Paul dramatically puts a hand to his chest. “The great Dr. Prescott made a mistake? Say it’s not so.”
I roll my eyes. “Cut it out.”
“See you at the gym?”
I nod. “Yeah. I need a couple of hours before I can get there.”
He looks at his watch. “Yeah, me, too.”
After rounds, I hit the hospital gym. It’s open twenty-four-seven because our schedules are all over the place. I’ve come here at five in the morning, three in the morning, eight at night, and sometimes at noon. It all depends on my day and how much I need to clear my head. Even when I’m bone-tired, working out energizes me, gives me the strength to go on and get through a double shift.
The treadmill next to Paul is occupied, so I take another one and maintain a hard, steady pace, as if I’m outrunning chaos.
By the time Paul finds me, I’m already two sets into the bench press, sweat dripping down my temples, the clang of weights punctuating the silence.
He steps up beside me, looping his gym bag over a hook. “You want a spot?”
“Sure,” I grunt, gripping the bar.
He braces behind me as I press up, arms trembling under the weight. My chest burns. My head’s a mess.
“Again,” he says when I rack the bar too soon.
I push through another rep, then sit up, wiping my face with a towel.
“You want to talk?” he prompts.
“Not really,” I huff.
He raises a brow. “You’re about to anyway.”
I blow out a breath, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “Jayne’s pissed. I said some things I shouldn’t have.”
Paul shrugs. “That’s marriage. You’ll say worse, and so will she.”
“I just—” I stop. The words jam in my throat. I grab my water bottle, take a long drink, buying time. “I can’t even talk about it without sounding like an asshole.”
“I already know you’re an asshole.” He loads a plate onto the next bar.
I tell him. Between sets. Between breaths. About Tory. About Jayne overhearing. About the impending conversation or doom awaiting me tonight.
He listens without judgment or interruption.
Just spots me as I lift again.
When I’m done, chest heaving, he tosses me a towel.
“You know, you’ve been Dr. Prescott for so long, you’ve forgotten how to be Rhys.”
