He waits and nods.
“No, I don’t think that’s going to affect the outcome.”
Pause.
“The performance is an hour. Yeah, she’ll rock it.” He smiles, voice warm. “I can be there in a few hours. If anything changes, text me.”
Pause.
“No, I don’t have my pager with me.” He laughs at the response to that.
“Send me the images and labs. I don’t have access to the EMR right now.”
After we leave, he doesn’t check his email incessantly. He does not ignore us for his work. He’s present.
And I begin to believe.
At the community center, the bleachers are packedand buzzing with parents, glitter, and the overwhelming scent of chalk and hairspray.
The gym lights glint off the mat like it’s a stage.
When Mikaela walks out, her chin lifted and her eyes scanning the crowd, Rhys stands so fast he nearly elbows the father next to him.
“Right here, Peanut!” he calls out loudly, waving like an idiot. A very sweet, very embarrassing idiot.
She sees him.
Her entire face transforms, bright, open, and full of pure joy.
Her floor music starts. It’s a bright, bubbly remix ofThis Girl Is on Firethat she had us cut down to exactly ninety seconds.
I’ve heard it on loop for weeks.
I’ve watched her practice on the living room rug, in the hallway, in the backyard, even on the sidewalk once while waiting for Finn’s cleats to be found. She practiced everywhere, pointing her toes, fixing her arms, whispering the counts under her breath:one-and-two, three-four, jump-land.
And now, she steps onto the mat with a fierce expression. Her ponytail swings as she takes her opening pose, fingers spread, back straight.
Then she moves.
Every cartwheel is sharp and clean.
Her turns are tight, pointed toes skimming the mat in perfect rhythm.
Rhys records the whole thing like a proud-dadcliché, zooming, whispering things like “nailed it,” “that’s my girl,” and “look at that form,” under his breath.
Since he’s been taking her to gymnastics class, he’s become wholly invested in it.
When Mikaela hits her hands-to-the-sky finishing pose and holds it, the applause breaks out.
Rhys cheers loud enough that heads turn.
Mikaela waves so hard she almost knocks herself off-balance. He blows kisses her way, and I’m more in love with him than I’ve ever been.
That night, after the kids are in bed, Rhys pulls on his jacket and pauses by the door. “You sure this is okay?”
Oh God! He’s worried that I’ll be upset, that he’ll lose me, and it makes me feel both small and big at the same time. It means he cares; it also means that I’ve taken some of his freedom away. It’s time to give it back.
“Absolutely okay. Go, Dr. Prescott, and save a life.” I kiss his cheek.
