“What the fuck does that mean?” I groan.
“What doyouthink it does?”
I scoff. “Claire is the psych, not you, so get to the point, okay?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been married for nearly as long as you have.” He racks his own weights with a sharp clink. “I’ve screwed up every possible way.”
“Claire ever overhear you talking to a woman who flirts with you and makes her insecure that you want out of your marriage?” I wipe sweat off my forehead.
He lets out a bark of laughter, grabbing a dumbbell and curling it. “Well, not all of us can fuck up like the brilliant Dr. Prescott.”
“True.” I grimace, leaning back on the bench. My shirt clings to me, soaked through. “I’m truly fucked, aren’t I?”
“Pretty much.” He sets the weights down with a controlled thud. “But you’ll live.”
I get back on the bench, and he spots me as I grip the bar again. My arms are screaming, but I push through the burn.
“Claire and I fight like hell, you know that,” he says between counts.
I grumble, the bar shaking above me. “I know.”
Their fights are legendary screaming matches, but I’ve never seen a couple so in sync as Paul and Claire.
He watches my form. “Thing is, we never stop talking. We can be halfway through an argument and stilltell each other we’re hungry, and then there’s the makeup sex. Don’t knock that.”
I rack the bar, breathing hard. “Jayne and I used to have makeup sex,” I pant, grabbing the towel from my neck. “But then we stopped fighting. Now we just…simmerall the time.”
Paul lies back down on the bench.
I step behind him, spotting.
“That’s the danger zone.” He starts to lift. “The stretches where you stop being a team and start being opponents who don’t even argue anymore.”
I nod, eyes on the bar as he presses it up. “The key is to remember that when you fight with your partner, it’s not a competition.”
I grip the bar as he finishes his rep and racks it with a clank. “Yeah! Tell that to the guy who thinks he’s losing every argument.”
Paul sits up, grabbing his towel, sweat running down his temple.
“Then stop treating your interactions with her like a sparring match, Prescott.” He looks me dead in the eye, a challenge in his demeanor. “You’re not supposed to win. You’re supposed to connect. Not everything is about being right.”
I stare down at my hands, flexing them. They’re shaking slightly. “My dad never saw it that way. Everything was a test with him. Grades, sports, med school—if I wasn’t the best, I was worthless. I thought he was a shit father and husband. And now…I feel like him.”
A flicker of compassion crosses Paul’s face. “You’re nothing like your asshole father, Rhys. You’re a good man. A little arrogant and a damn workaholic, but not a man who makes others feel small.”
“Don’t I?” I remember how sad Jayne looked when she told me how hurt she was. “I make Jayne feel like she has to shrink to make room for me.”
“You and she are going to talk and you’re going to connect and…it’s going to get better.” He slaps my shoulder. “Just remember that you can’t fix a marriage like you fix an artery.”
“Hell! That I can do with my eyes closed.”
“Yeah! Anatomies are far less complicated than emotions,” he agrees.
CHAPTER 13
Jayne
Steam rises from the paper boxes, curling through the kitchen with the warm spice of curry tofu, the sweet tang of coconut rice, and the umami scent of crispy tempura.
