“I do trust you, Rhys. This isn’t about that,” I say gently, even though it is about faith, isn’t it? I don’t believe he can live up to either my expectations of him or his expectations of himself.
“It is. And I have failed you time and again. I could barely keep the schedule I promised I’d keep for more than a few weeks. And you’ve been doing it all for years.”
Okay, who is this man, and where the hell is my husband?You know, the one who gets angry. The one who snaps at me when I complain. The one who says he’s too tired for a conversation.
“What do you want?” I’m just this side of desperate because he’s confusing the hell out of me.
“A week. Can you give me a week?”
“To do what?” I ask, exasperated.
“To be there for you.”
I have no idea why he’s saying this, but I’m too drained to figure him out. I shrug. “Fine.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I know you’re thinking I’m spouting bullshit, and I deserve that, but I will make things better.”
I nod, even though I know this is a lost cause.
ButI can wait a week before I give my notice toDaniel. I’ll need a few weeks to train my replacement, anyway, so the firm continues to function as smoothly as it does now, but just making the decision, I think, will give me headspace and reduce this incessant pressure I seem to carry.
“Okay.”
He grins now, and I see the boy I used to know. “Have you eaten?”
“I was thinking of drinking my dinner.” I tilt my head to the half-empty wine glass next to me.
“Let’s go out,” he suggests. “The kids are not home. We should treat ourselves.”
I want to turn him down and just go to bed, but that seems petty, especially since he did ask for a week’s reprieve. And I do like the idea of going out to dinner with my husband. To go out on a date with him. It’s been…well, years since we did.
“Sounds good.”
He pulls out his phone. “Great. I’ll make reservations at Charleston.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Charleston? Fancy!”
“We deserve fancy.”
It takes us thirty minutes to get ready. He needs a shower, and I need to rinse the tears and sadness off my face. It takes me longer than him to spruce up, though. When I come downstairs, he’s waiting by the door, freshly showered, shirt crisp, hair still damp around the edges.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
He opens his arms and I step into them. We used to hug all the time. Rhys used to joke that he wanted his endorphin rush—which was his way of saying,hold me close, baby.
He kisses my hair, and I almost forget how heavy tonight started.
At Charleston, we’re seated at a small table near the window, candlelight flickering between us.
Rhys orders grilled lamb chops and pairs it, as the sommelier recommends, with a Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I get my favorite scallops with capers and lemon brown butter, accompanied by a glass of a mineral-rich Soave Classico from Veneto.
When the waiter pours the wine, I glance at Rhys. He’s watching me, but not in the wary, measured way he has lately. There’s something gentler in his gaze. More open.
“Remember our first time here?”
I laugh. “You wore that awful tie with the tiny whales.”
It was shortly after he began his residency at Johns Hopkins. Iris babysat the kids. We were celebrating with an expensive meal we could barely afford.
