Signing Away Our Marriage While He Held Another Woman

At six-thirty the next morning, right on schedule, Delia called.

"Rhys, I can't practice today. My back really won't lift."

There was a thread of indulgent helplessness in his voice. "Delia, you've danced ballet for over ten years. You're not some student who just started."

She drew a soft little breath on the other end. "Then what if you comforted me a little?"

He was quiet for two seconds, and his tone went soft. "Fine. I'll come over after morning rounds. Let me put a patch on it first."

Delia took the opening at once. "And after the patch you have to have breakfast with me. And help me stretch."

He gave a low laugh. "Maybe I should just transfer over and be your company's team doctor."

"Sure, if you dare! Would your wife allow it?"

The bathroom door was pushed to but not shut. I heard every word.

He hung up, lifted his eyes, and collided with mine. His face froze for half a beat.

"She's unstable before rehearsals."

My face didn't move. "Very attentive of you."

"You should apply to be the troupe's dedicated staff physician, Dr. Maddox."

He frowned. "Fiona."

A cramp shot up from deep in my lower belly, like someone twisting a rope of dough inside me.

I braced against the doorframe, my voice gone hoarse. "Move."

I rushed into the bathroom and curled over the toilet, dry heaving, bringing nothing up, just cold sweat rising through me in waves.

Rhys stood in the doorway and looked at me. He didn't come closer. He only frowned.

"You skipped meals again last night?"

I gasped for breath. "My stomach doesn't feel right."

He swept a glance over my pale face, his tone flat.

"Lumbar strain compresses the sciatic nerve, so you get referred pain. It's normal for it to radiate to the lower belly."

"You've been up all night editing your videos lately, sitting wrong. That's why."

I went still, fingertips clenching the edge of the sink.

"It isn't my back."

He acted as if he hadn't heard, pulled a tissue, and wiped the door handle.

"Every time you're hurting you don't say a word, and then you wait until you can't stand it and put on this pitiful act. It's exhausting."

He glanced down at his watch.

"I've got Delia's manual therapy this morning, and a consult this afternoon. I can't get away."

"There's some painkillers in the medicine box. Take a couple and see how you feel."

Then he added one more thing.

"Turn on the exhaust fan later to clear the smell. Don't make it hard for anyone else to use in here."

The moment the door shut, another wave of pain tore through me, so sharp I couldn't straighten up.

A rust-tasting dry heave rose in my throat.

I leaned on the wall and rode it out for a long time, and then it struck me as absurd.

He could patiently find the angle for every inch of Delia's spine, but the sight of me in pain was too unseemly for him.

So it turned out even his conscience as a doctor came sorted by person.

He picked up his bag and walked out without looking back.

I wiped my face and called a cab to the hospital alone.

When the ultrasound printout was handed to me, the doctor's face was grave. "The baby has implanted too low, close to the incision scar. Continuing the pregnancy carries serious risk."

I stared at that blurry smudge of shadow on the screen and couldn't get a word out for a long time.

The doctor softened her tone. "In a case like this it's best to have a family member here for the decision. Would you like to notify your husband?"

I opened my mouth and realized the only name I had to give was Rhys. There was no one else.

My parents died early. The year I got my residency registered under the Maddox household was the first time I truly felt I had roots.

But now, with the doctor asking for family, I gripped the printout, my fingertips cold.

Outside the hospital, I stood on the steps and called Rhys. No one picked up.

I sent a message too. "Something's come up. Come home."

I took a cab back, and there in the entryway sat a pair of pink ballet shoes.