The one-bedroom apartment is gray, and Rhys and I keep saying we should paint it robin’s-egg blue. We found it online and chose to believe that, despite the narrow kitchen and small windows, we could make it ours. It would be where we finally planned our wedding, after years of putting it off.
He barely hesitated when I brought up waiting until I finished school, after our first trip to my parents’ place. My mother’s comment that night wasn’t the reason, except that I wanted to prove her wrong. I wanted her to see how much Rhys cared for me, and how patient and kind he could be.
“We have time,” he told me. When we still hadn’t made wedding plans during my last year at Washington State University's College of Veterinary Medicine, it was clear we’d have to wait until after I moved for my residency.
It takes a few months to find my rhythm at the hospital—or hospitals. The veterinary program moves us between them so we can learn in different settings. I did well in vet school, as I had in college and high school, but residency is harder. Everything happens quickly, and I’m always trying to catch up. My feet and knees ache after a full day standing. I can’t keep the floor plans straight; one hospital blends into the next in my head, and I’m just late enough to notice.
Four weeks in, Taye, a fourth-year with dark curls and a model’s height, catches me by the shoulders as I hurry past.
“Stop for a second,” she says. “When you rush, you make mistakes. We can’t make mistakes.”
I nod, trying to take that in. Then, as we part, I knock a jar of pens off the reception desk.
Rhys finds our wedding venue: a converted warehouse above the bay, with an opening that winter.
“If you like it, I’m in,” I say.
We pay the deposit. Over the next month, we make almost no progress on anything else. There are too many choices, the costs keep adding up, and Rhys can’t find work that pays much more than minimum wage, despite his business degree.
“I’m bad at interviews,” he says one night, rubbing his face after another rejection email.
“You only make it harder by talking yourself down,” I tell him. I climb onto his lap and loop my arms around his neck. “Next time, let me answer for you.”
He gives a solemn nod. “I’ll tell them my best skill is making you laugh.”
I laugh against his neck and breathe him in. “That might actually get you hired.”
He brushes my hair back and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Tell them what the people who love you see,” I say.
He keeps applying. We keep trying.
He gets another bookstore job, but it barely pays more than minimum wage and won’t cover the rest of the rent. A few weeks later, he takes a second part-time job repairing boat upholstery.
Then one morning, after a night shift, I come home and find him still wearing yesterday’s clothes at the table. His phone lies on the floor, its screen split by a crack.
“Rhys?” My throat tightens.
He looks at me, then starts to sob. I kneel beside him and hold him as he folds against me, pressing his forehead to my shoulder. His hands clutch my scrubs so tightly I think the fabric may tear.
It takes a long time for him to speak. At last, he tells me his father is gone.