I need sleep. But I lie awake, waiting for her.
It takes her a couple of hours.
I heard the dishwasher run, the clatter of dishes, the sound of the fridge door, the quiet hum of her moving through the house doing things.
Am I supposed to help her?
In the past, when we were younger and I’d try to fill up the dishwasher or do laundry, she’d tell me to study or just relax. She knew I was fucking exhausted as medical students and residents are meant to be.
She did it all then.
She dropped out of law school and earned a paralegal degree while working at the law firm where she still is.
She worked. Paid the bills for medical school and our lives.
But I returned everything with interest, didn’t I? I gave her this house, vacations in Europe, and a fucking Mercedes.
Maybe we should hire a housekeeper. Then she won’t be so damned tired, and I won’t have to carry this damned guilt.
We do have a cleaning service, which she appreciates. I know that. But she’s not keen on having someone in our home all day. I get that. I wouldn’t like that either. But…maybe we both should put our discomfort with that aside and get the help.
Fuck me! How did I become the asshole in our lives?
I save lives for a living.She organizes soccercarpools and office schedules.And somehow, I’m the bad guy here?
I stare at my phone, back against the headboard, pretending to read when she comes to our bedroom.
She moves quietly around the room, the soft sounds of her routine filling the space between us.
I finally give up pretending to read and watch her.
She removes her earrings, changes into pajama shorts, and a tank top.
She’s elegant.
She looks good.
MyJayne has always looked good.
Sure, my colleagues look at every new nurse—and some of them even have affairs—but I’ve never been even remotely tempted. I have a wife who looks like Jayne; why the hell would I look around? Not that I even have time to get laid at home these days. Between her busy schedule lately and my busy schedulealways, sex has gone out the window.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe we just need to have more sex. Connect physically. Intimately. That’s what couples do when things start slipping, right? Get back to basics. Touch, talk, fix. Maybe that’s all we need.
She gets into bed, sets the alarm on her phone, and turns her bedside light off.
Her hair’s still damp from the shower she takes before bed. I catch the scent of her shampoo—lavender, the same brand she’s used since college.
That small familiarity makes me ache.
I clear my throat. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow. The first case is a triple bypass at six, then a valve replacement right after. I’ll be lucky if I get lunch.”
She doesn’t look at me, just lies flat on her back. “Okay.”
“After that, I’m supposed to consult on a pediatric transplant candidate. Twelve-year-old girl. Congenital defect.” I pause, hoping for…what?Sympathy? Admiration? Anything? “It’s going to be a long day.”
Jayne shuffles the covers so the duvet is now across her shoulders. “I know, Rhys. They usually are for you.” She says it with no malice or heat, just resignation.
