Jayne
When Rhys tells me we’ve been invited to dinner at Dr. Victor Lin’s house, I almost say no. Social events tied to his work have a history. The suits. The smiles.
Tory.
“It’s just a dinner, Jayne. No speeches, no donors, no pretense. Victor and Ava are good people. And Paul and Claire will be there.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Didn’t we say total honesty?”
I sigh. “I don’t want to seeher.”
“She’s not relevant to our lives, baby.” He wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry that I did this, brought her up to….”
“We’re not going back to that,” I cut him off.
We’ve talked ad nauseam about the past.
What he said.
What I said.
Why he said what he said.
Why I said what I said.
It’s done and done and then some.
I rest my forehead against his chest. “We’re moving forward, remember.”
“Then leave Tory behind in the past.” He kisses my hair. “Please.”
“I’ll try.” He accepts that because it’s true.
It’s a warm August evening when we pull up to the Lins’ home in Guilford. It’s an old stone house that looks like it’s come straight out of Architectural Digest.
String lights glow in the backyard, and there’s the low hum of conversation and music. We’re not the first to arrive. Thank God!
Rhys and I hold hands as we walk in.
I’m relaxed. Light
Until I see her.
Tory Chehade.
She’s in a sleek black dress, wine glass in hand, laughter like glass chimes. I feel the automatic tightening in my chest, but I force myself to breathe. We’ve been here before—except now, I know where my husband stands.
Dr. Lin greets us warmly, ushering us toward a long table on the patio. There are appetizers lined up: smoked salmon, a cheese plate, artichoke dip, freshfocaccia that Ava Lin made herself (Dr. Lin showed off), and cheese puffs.
It’s easy, just like Rhys promised. No tight shoulders, no undercurrent of tension. Having Paul and Claire helps, much like adding stabilizers to a bike; everything feels steadier.
“Jayne, you look incredible.” Claire settles beside me, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Radiant. I’m guessing Rhys’s sabbatical is agreeing with you?”
I laugh. “It really is. Turns out sleeping more than five hours a night is transformative.”
Paul groans across the table. “Don’t tell my wife that. She’ll never let me complain again.”
