Chapter 1 Lane
ONE
Lane
I glare at the crooked brown antlers while Sanders admires himself in the reflection of the microwave door. Glitter dusts the pendant lights overhead, mocking my attempts at motherly competence.
“Seriously, Mom.” He turns his head side to side. “Tell me these don’t have rizz.”
“They have dust mites,” I mutter, tugging the elastic band into place. “Where did you even find these?”
“Guest room closet. Box of random Christmas junk.” He grins, adjusting them with both hands. “Vintage. Drippy.”
A memory clicks. My throat tightens. “That’s from the Reindeer Run your dad and I did when you were a baby. I completely forgot about that.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You took me to a race when I was a baby? What, was I crawling along behind you? Did you have me on a leash?”
“You were in a stroller, knucklehead,” I say, brushing glitter off his shoulder. “We pushed you the whole way. You loved it. Especially those antlers. You wouldn’t take them off for a week.”
He smirks. “Clearly, I’ve always had style.”
“Uh, huh. Okay, if you say so.”
He adjusts the antlers again, striking a mock-serious pose. “Think Dad’ll be there?”
My throat tightens, but I keep my tone bright. “He promised, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. Will you please make sure he knows where I am?" His voice softens for a beat before he covers it with a grin. “Do I have too much glitter on me?”
“There’s no such thing as too much glitter at Christmas.” I pluck a sparkling fleck from his hair and flick it at him. “Correction. There’s no such thing as too much glitter, period.”
I tug the green sweater straight across his narrow shoulders. Despite the chaos, pride wells in my chest. My beautiful boy. The one thing Woody and I got right.
“Ready, Rudolf?” I help him down from the stool. I swear he gets heavier every time, all elbows and legs, like my baby’s being traded in for a lanky kid I’m not ready for.
“Ready.” He plants his fists on his hips and strikes a superhero pose, as the antlers slip crookedly.
I grab my bag, car keys, and Sanders’ backpack in one practiced swoop. Seven years of single-parent mornings have made me efficient if nothing else.
We rush toward the door, my free hand brushing glitter from my sweater.
I jostle through the crush of excited parents, my tote bag banging against my hip as I scan the rapidly filling gym for a decent seat.
The place reeks of artificial pine air freshener, unsuccessfully masking years of spilled juice boxes and sweaty dodgeball games. Paper snowflakes dangle from fishing line above the stage, twirling lazily in the current from overworked heating vents.
"Excuse me," I murmur, side-stepping what I'm guessing is a grandfather with a massive camcorder. Do they even make those things anymore?
"Sorry." I squeeze past knees and purses, feeling the clock ticking down.
Twenty minutes early and still barely any seats left. My ankle turns as I shimmy across the aisle, but I recover gracefully.
I finally spot a single chair along the left-hand aisle, dropping into it with relief just as someone's coat spills into my lap from the neighboring seat.
"Oh! I'm so sorry." A harried mom with blonde highlights snatches it back. "I was saving it for my husband, but he just texted that he's running late, so you can take it. He can stand in the back if he even makes it on time."
"Aren't they always late?" The words slip out before I can stop them. God, I sound so bitter.
She laughs, misreading my sarcasm for camaraderie. "Right? Mine's coming straight from the office. For a successful businessman, he's the worst at time management. What about yours?"
"We're divorced," I say matter-of-factly while fishing my phone from my purse. "But yes, he's always late."
"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to assume."
"For heaven's sake, please do not worry. It's not fresh, I've been free for seven years."
The conversation mercifully dies as the lights dim slightly and a teacher taps the microphone, sending feedback squealing through the speakers. The crowd winces collectively.
The show isn't starting, but we're close. Where the hell is Woody? Sanders will be so disappointed if he doesn't get here.
That's when I see him.
Woody strides through the double doors at the back, still in blue scrubs with his hospital badge clipped to his pocket. Even from here, I can see the exhaustion lines around his eyes, but it doesn't diminish the effect of his lean, fit six-foot-one frame.
A literal ripple moves through the female half of the audience. Whispers flutter around me.
"Is that Dr. Beamer?"
"The orthopedic surgeon?"
"He fixed my mom's knee last spring..."
One woman, two rows ahead, actually sighs. Audibly. Gag me with a spoon.
Woody pauses at the end of my row, those gold-rimmed hazel eyes finding mine instantly in the dim light. He gives a small nod, then slides into an empty seat directly across the aisle.
Just like him to show up late and somehow find the last empty seat in the house.
He's close enough that I catch the antiseptic smell of hospital soap. Close enough that our fingers could touch if we both reached out.
The elementary school band strikes up a wobbly rendition of "Jingle Bells," and the fourth graders file onto the stage in their construction paper reindeer headbands.
I straighten, my heart leaping when I spot Sanders in the second row, antlers hamming it up. He may think he's a teenager, but he's not yet. He will always be my little butterball.
I know this is probably the last year he will willingly dress in homemade props for a school production. As chaotic as it was this morning, I secretly live for these things.
I sneak my phone beneath my palm, unlocking the screen to double-check my ringer is off. Sanders would die if my ringtone, "Walking on Sunshine," blared during the show. The glow illuminates my face in the dimmed gymnasium, turning heads in my direction.
Woody's text appears just as I'm about to slide the phone back into my pocket.
No checking your phone during the show.
I smile despite the mild irritation that he called me out. A dozen responses flash through my mind, most involving creative uses of surgical instruments. I settle for pragmatic, instead.
I was turning off my ringer. But thanks for the tip.
Thanks for saving me a seat.
There was hardly a seat for me, so no saving to be had. You found one, like you usually do, so you're just fine.
I glance across the aisle. Woody's profile is sharp in the low light, eyes fixed on the stage where our son stands among his classmates. He doesn't look at his phone, but I know he feels it vibrate.
The response comes seconds later.
Was in surgery. Saving lives.
The Great Doctor Beamer, perpetually on call, eternally unreachable. My eyes roll so hard they nearly detach.
The sarcasm bites, but not as sharply as it once did. We've worn each other down over the years, filed away the roughest edges.
Sanders stands taller than most of his classmates, his cheeks flushed with excitement. Those ridiculous antlers wobble with every exaggerated nod, like he’s daring the audience to laugh. When the chorus hits, his voice rises clear above the others, just a touch too loud.
My face softens involuntarily. That's my boy.
Across the aisle, Woody leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving Sanders. The professional detachment he wears like armor has slipped away, replaced by naked paternal pride.
Sanders spots us both. Instead of waving, he gives a sharp head nod and purses his lips, the kind of mock-cool move he’s picked up from TikTok or whatever it is he scrolls endlessly. Then, as if nothing happened, he straightens and belts the next line like a pro.
I wave back, my chest tight with emotion.
Woody and I lock eyes across the crowded aisle. We share a rare moment of pure, unguarded connection. We're not divorcees in this second, not enemies, not even separate people. We're just Sanders' parents, united in our love for this rizz-filled kid.
After Sanders is in bed, I can finally sit down with my sister for a recap of our day. She loves to stop by on her way home from work, and I cherish these wind-downs with her.
“I swear, Maggie, the way those women looked at him tonight…” I grip the wine glass like it might fly away. “It’s like he walked in trailing angel dust. Ridiculous.”
Maggie swirls her red wine and then sticks her nose in and inhales. She always likes to pretend she's a sommelier. “So you’re still keeping track of how women look at your ex?”
I shoot her a glare. “Stop. No. I'm just telling you how annoying he is.”
“It’s funny. You hate him, but you notice every time someone else doesn’t.”
I cut my eyes at her and give her the death stare over my wine glass.
Maggie tips her head, the twinkle in her eye ribbing me like only a little sister can. “Just saying. At least he shows up for Sanders.”
“That’s the only redeeming quality he’s got. If he’d been as absent for Sanders as he was for me when we were married, we'd have gone to blows years ago. I’ll take a lousy husband over a lousy dad any day.”
She nods, serious now. “Yeah, he was pretty bad those first few years. All hospital, all the time. I do wonder if he’s slowed down a little, or just finally figured out what matters.”
I trace a circle around the bottom of my glass. “Whatever it is, I’m grateful. Sanders adores his dad.”
Maggie leans in, voice soft. “He's not a bad guy, Lane. You know that. Just a shitty husband.”
“I'm sure he is. I just wish I didn't have to see him so often. But I've learned to go with it."
Maggie leans back and does that fluff thing she always does to her hair when she's thinking. “So what’s the plan this year for Christmas? You and Sanders going to Jerry’s family's house?”
The name grates on my nerves. Jerry and I have been trying to make a go of it for over four years, on again, off again, prolonging the inevitable. He's not a bad guy. I can't put my finger on why, he's just not the guy for me. “No plan. Jerry and I are done. I told you.”