“I need to talk.”
“I need to work out.” He balls up the wrapper and sinks it perfectly into the trash. “Let’s go. Before a nurse mistakes us for someone useful.”
We cut through the service hallway toward the hospital gym. It’s mostly empty—just one nurse on a treadmill and a resident half-asleep on a stationary bike. It smells like disinfectant and rubber mats like always.
Paul heads straight for the free weights, cracking his neck like he’s getting ready to fight the barbell.
I grab a bench next to him.
He starts loading plates on a bar with the kind of efficiency only a long-time surgeon-athlete has.
“So?” he asks. “My wife says she had a friendly chat with you, but Claire is always playing psychologist.”
“Yeah.”
“She make you think about things?”
I give a short laugh. “She said you and I have our identities wrapped up in being surgeons.”
He lies back on the bench and lifts the bar. “True.”
He works out for a while, until I finally say. “Jayne and I had a really good weekend.”
He racks the bar and sits up, swiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “That’s good…right?”
“Yeah.” I grip a dumbbell, then set it back down because my palms are already sweating. “We talked, and she told me she’s becoming a version of herself she hates. Bitter. Loud. Invisible.”
Paul whistles low. “Damn.”
“It’s like she’s drowning and I’m sitting on the shore shouting instructions.”
He snorts. “Well, stop shouting and jump the fuck in.”
“I’m trying. Buttryingisn’t enough.” My throat thickens unexpectedly. “I keep screwing up. I was late for pickups. Missed gymnastics. Missed dinner. Forgot a form. She’s been carrying all of this for years, and I can’t sustain it for a month without falling apart.”
“Look”—Paul settles onto the bench for another set—“you’re a surgeon, Rhys. You can be arrogant, butyou’re not stupid. So let’s skip thewoe-is-meroutine and get to the part where you tell me your plan.”
I watch him lift. Perfect posture. Steady breathing. No wasted movement.
I wish I had that certainty anywhere outside an OR.
“I want to be a good husband. A good father. And also, a good doctor.” I run my hand along the cold metal frame of the bench. “I want all of it. But I’m dropping something every damn day, and Jayne’s the one who gets hit when it falls.”
He racks the bar and stands. “So, stop trying to do everything at once.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Am I supposed to quit? Walk away from the OR? From everything I built?”
“Maybe.” He plants a steady hand on my shoulder. “Look, you’re not the only one who’s allowed ambitions or exhaustion. And more importantly, you need to decide if your job is more sacred than your marriage.”
His hand is heavy, just like his words.
“She’s not asking you to stop being a surgeon,” he adds.
I stare at the scuffed rubber floor, chest tight. “I don’t know how to step back without feeling like I’m failing.”
Paul shrugs. “Then fail forward. Take time. Reset. Be a man first,thena surgeon.”
“You know what that means?”
