She seems relieved. Like she’s grateful I’m finally doing the bare minimum. Like I’ve graduated from screw-up husband to functional adult, and that’s all the celebration I deserve.
I don’t want applause. But maybe I do want acknowledgment—that this is hard. That it’s not easy to be everywhere at once.
By Thursday afternoon, I’m dragging. My last surgery runs long, and I’m supposed to meet Jayne for dinner with the kids. I text her that I’ll be late, and she sends back:No worries. We’ll start without you.
She’s patient. She’s not jumping down my throat every time something goes wrong. She doesn’t look at me like I’m a disappointment. She says it happens, and it’s not a big deal. I think she means it, but maybe she’s doing what she said she used to do, papering over issues to keep the peace.
I head to the doctor’s lounge, drop into a chair, and rest my head in my hands for a moment.
“Hey, stranger.”
I look up to see Tory, holding two coffees. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She grins and sets one in front of me. “Decaf. Ifigured you’ve probably had enough caffeine to stop your own heart by now.”
I take it like it’s lifesaving medication. “You’re not wrong.”
She studies me over the rim of her cup. “Rough day?”
“Busy.” I keep my tone even. Not an invitation. Just an answer.
She nods knowingly. “Things okay at home?”
Her tone is light, almost teasing. She’s been trying to pull me into conversations about Jayne for weeks. I’ve been careful—not cold, but not open either. Still, sometimes small talk slips in.
“Things are good,” I reply tersely.
“Don’t you leave early on Thursdays now to pick up your son?” she asks.
“I had M&M.” I stifle a yawn that settles into my bones. Morbidity and Mortality conferences matter, but they also drain you.
“Is Jayne annoyed?” Tory asks. She slides into the chair beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder—light but somehow deliberate.
I don’t like it.
I scrub a hand over my face, using the motion to lean forward just enough that her hand falls away. It looks casual. It isn’t.
“No,” I say evenly. “She’s very understanding.”
She doesn’t nag, doesn’t guilt me. Just smiles calmly and tells me it’s okay. And maybe that shouldmake me grateful, but lately, it makes me uneasy. Like she’s quietly adjusting, lowering her expectations.
I did great the first two months. But the last six weeks have been absolute hell. Conferences, a new clinical trial, cases up the wazoo.
Tory watches me with sympathetic eyes. “You have so much to juggle, Rhys. You can’t do everything.”
“Try telling that to my calendar.” I stare into my coffee. Still not venting. Just stating a fact.
Her hand lands on my arm. This time she squeezes.
“You know what I see? A domestic god and an excellent heart surgeon. I’m impressed with you.”
I pull my arm away, repositioning so there’s a safe foot of space between us.
Did she always touch this much?
Or did I just never pay attention?
