Chapter 8 Woody
EIGHT
Woody
I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes. The condo is dim except for the glow spilling from the kitchen. No TV humming, no chatter, no reminders of anyone but me. Just the laptop waiting on the counter and the stack of charts I promised Peck.
I should be figuring out what to pack for New York, but I owe Nate this first. I know he likes to get his reps and nurses to set up his cases well in advance, so I've already put him behind.
Lane and Sanders are just a couple of miles away, probably getting ready for bed, their laughter still faint in my ears. I ache to be there, to be part of that bedtime routine.
The dinner with Carly and the kids keeps replaying in my head. I loved watching Sanders’ pride, Lane’s soft smile when Carly hugged her, the way she looked at me when I didn’t reach for my phone. For one night, I almost believed I’d managed to balance both worlds.
Almost.
The charts pull me back fast enough. I scroll through Bill Thorson's file first. This is one I really wish I could have moved to next week, but it can't wait. It's the hip revision I’d flagged as tricky.
My eyes snag on the med list: long-term prednisone for rheumatoid arthritis.
Steroids. No wonder the last scan showed thin bone stock.
I make a quick note in the surgical plan for Nate to see: Watch acetabular rim for poor bone quality.
If cup not stable, consider augments or cage system. Possible graft.
I lean back, scrubbing a hand down my face. Peck’s done his share of tough hips, but this one’s a bear. I attach my notes, add the images, and type a message:
Thanks again for picking these up. I owe you big time. Next time you want a day off, I’ll cover every one of your knees without blinking. I’ll be back Saturday afternoon, but call me anytime if you need to talk through a case or want another set of eyes. Available by phone if anything crops up.
I rub at my eyes, the words on the screen blurring after a day that already feels too long. The house is so still it almost hums, the only sound the low whir of the furnace kicking on.
I should be packing, maybe even sleeping, but instead I’m combing through lab results and dictation notes, double-checking every flag I marked for Peck. If I don’t, I’ll lie awake wondering what I missed.
The next morning, the airport hums with the usual mix of chaos and routine. Rolling suitcases rattle over the hard floor, children whine, while the steady voice of the gate agent announces departures.
I spot Lane and Sanders near the entrance, her hand resting on his shoulder as he bounces on the balls of his feet, too excited to stand still.
“Hey,” I say as I approach, dragging my carry-on behind me. “How’d it go this morning?”
Lane glances up, her expression softening when she sees me. “We’re checked in. Just waiting on you.”
Sanders beams, his backpack bulging like he’s packed his whole room. “Dad! They gave me wings!” He holds up the cheap plastic pin with all the pride of a Medal of Honor.
I chuckle and ruffle his hair. “That’s a big deal, Squirt.”
I turn to Lane, lowering my voice. “What about Carly and the kids? Are they with you?”
“They’re coming on the next flight.” She shifts the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “Carly had to work a few hours this morning. Tie up loose ends so her boss would sign off on the time off.”
I frown. “The fundraiser should’ve covered her unpaid leave by now.”
“We just told her last night. I think she already told her manager she would be there and planned their flights accordingly,” Lane says flatly, adjusting Sanders’s sleeve. “You know those funds don’t just show up overnight. She still has rent, groceries, utilities—real bills.”
Guilt pricks in my gut. I hadn't even considered that. “I’ll call the GoFundMe team today, make sure it gets pushed through. She shouldn’t be worrying about this right now.”
Lane nods, not meeting my eyes. “That would be helpful.”
The security line inches forward. Sanders chatters about the city, about the tree and the rink and the toy stores he’s mapped out in his head. His enthusiasm is contagious, pulling smiles out of both of us despite the undercurrent between us.
At the gate, we settle into a row of chairs. Lane digs through her tote for snacks, handing Sanders a granola bar before he even asks. I watch the ease of it, how she anticipates him, how seamlessly she still fills the role I so often left her to carry alone.
Sanders leans against my arm, chewing noisily. “Do you think Luke and Leigh will get wings too?”
“I bet they will,” I say, smoothing his hair.
Lane’s eyes meet mine briefly across Sanders’s head. For a flicker of a second, it feels like we’ve done this before, a thousand times, even though we haven’t. Not as a family. Not like this.
“Flight 237 to New York now boarding,” the gate agent calls over the speaker.
Sanders shoots up, crumbs falling to the floor. “That’s us!”
We gather our bags. Lane falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush as we join the line.
The flight is uneventful. Sanders jabbers until exhaustion finally drags him under, his head lolling against Lane’s shoulder somewhere over Virginia.
I stare out the window into the clouds, pretending not to notice the way her hair brushes his forehead, the picture-perfect scene I used to be part of.
By the time we land at Laguardia, he’s recharged and bouncing like he’s had three espressos.
The cab ride is a blur of Christmas lights and skyscrapers. Sanders presses his nose to the glass, narrating every billboard like we’ve never seen advertisements before. Lane laughs a little too tightly, the sound of someone trying to stay present even while her mind ticks through logistics.
By the time we reach the Midtown hotel, my patience is thin due to the crawl and horns of the traffic through town.
The lobby is all polished marble and towering poinsettias. A giant tree glows with white lights in the corner. Sanders darts ahead toward the fountain, tossing in a coin with a whispered wish.
At the desk, Lane slides her ID across to the receptionist, her tote slipping off her shoulder. “Let me get the reservation number. I know Tighe Benjamin, with Good Morning America, made them.”
The young man clicks at the keyboard. “Yes, we have you right here. A suite overlooking the south side.”
Lane blinks. “I'm sorry. Did you say 'a suite,' as in one? I thought it was two rooms.”
The clerk smiles apologetically. “Two rooms, correct. But they’re inside one suite. Shared common space, a kitchenette, two bedrooms.”
I exhale slowly, the weight settling between my shoulder blades. “Lane, didn’t you check the reservation?”
Her eyes flash. “Of course I did. Tighe kept saying ‘rooms.’ How was I supposed to know it was a suite?”
The clerk shifts uncomfortably. “We can certainly look for an additional room, sir.” He taps again, his brow furrowing. “Unfortunately, we’re fully booked tonight and tomorrow. Friday, we’ll have openings if you’d like to move then.”
Sanders reappears, clutching a pamphlet about ice skating at Rockefeller Center. “Can we go tonight?!”
"Not right now, Honey," Lane says to Sanders.
I rub the bridge of my nose. “So what am I supposed to do for two nights? Wander the city with my suitcase?”
Immediately, I wish I could take back my sarcastic tone. This isn't his fault.
The receptionist offers a polite smile. “We could try sister properties, but you’d be across town. Or, there are several other hotels within walking distance, if you want to try to contact them to check for vacancies.”
Lane jumps in, her voice calm but firm. “That’s not going to work.
We need to stay together, Woody. Carly and her kids will be here, too.
Otherwise, we’ll waste half the trip trying to meet up.
We’ll make the suite work.” She gestures between us.
“I’ll stay with Sanders in one room. You can take the other. Simple.”
Sanders beams, already oblivious to the undercurrent. “Perfect! We’ll be like a real family apartment in New York!”
My jaw tightens at the word family, the misconception everyone but Lane and I seems so eager to believe. I sign the paperwork, and the receptionist slides over two keycards.
Lane gathers them up, her knuckles grazing mine in the exchange. The contact is brief but enough to remind me of everything this arrangement risks. There's already too much closeness, too many reminders of why we didn't work in the first place.
We gather our stuff and head toward the elevators. Nineteenth floor. My stomach is fluttery just from the ride up.
The suite still smells faintly of new carpet and industrial cleaner when Sanders bursts through the door, already rummaging for his gloves. He bounces like a live wire, shouting about skating under the big tree.
He runs to the window and marvels at the view of Times Square. "Look at the cars and all the people. They look so small from here! Can we go ice skating?"
“We just got here,” Lane protests, tugging his jacket out of the suitcase. “Maybe tomorrow—”
“No way,” I cut in, surprising even myself. “He’s been talking about this for weeks. Come on. I just Google-mapped it, and it’s a twelve-minute walk from here to Rockefeller Center. Let's just see if we can get in.”
Sanders whoops, and Lane shoots me a look, halfway between exasperation and surrender. But she pulls on her scarf anyway.
By the time we step out into the damp December air, the city hums with an electric buzz. Tiny flakes of white are starting to fall.
Lights drape every tree, horns blare in the distance, and people spill across the sidewalks in holiday waves. Sanders darts ahead, the crowd swallowing his slight frame.
"Sanders, stop. Stay with us, Bud. There are too many people out here for you to be running ahead."
He comes back to us and pulls on Lane's arm. She grips my arm without thinking. I steady her, and for a second, I'm whisked back to ten years ago. Her hand is warm through my clothes, and I'm the anchor. She realizes what she’s done and lets go quickly, but the echo lingers.
At Rockefeller Center, the tree towers above us, glittering with a thousand tiny stars. Sanders gasps audibly. “It’s even bigger than in Elf.”
We snake through the holiday crowd, Sanders zigzagging like a pinball between strollers and tourists with shopping bags. The closer we get, the louder it is.
The sounds of skates scraping, music blasting, and vendors hawking hot chocolate are all part of the complete experience. The plaza hums with energy, everyone chasing their own slice of Christmas magic.
At the booth, Sanders is nearly quivering, calling out his shoe size before the attendant even asks. Lane leans over the counter, clarifying with her “mom voice,” while I fish out my wallet and hand over my card.
For once, nobody argues about who pays.
The kid behind the counter slides a stack of scuffed rental skates across. Sanders snatches his pair and plops straight onto the cold concrete to tug them on. Lane groans, “Sanders, you’ll freeze. At least sit on the bench.”
I guide him over with a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to your mom, Squirt.” He flops down, laces flying everywhere.
Lane bends to help him, her hair slipping from her scarf. I crouch too, working on the other skate. For a moment, we’re side by side, heads bent, our son between us. It’s a picture I don’t let myself hold onto, but the tug in my chest says otherwise.
“Got it,” Sanders crows, jumping up, nearly clocking me in the chin with his elbow. He grabs the wall and stumbles toward the gate, grinning so hard his cheeks must ache.
Lane fusses with her own laces, frowning. “I haven’t been on skates since I was twelve.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “It will be like riding a bike. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp, but not entirely annoyed. A flush creeps into her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold.
We shuffle toward the entrance, Sanders already halfway out on the ice, hollering for us to hurry. The rink is pandemonium in the best possible way. Kids shriek, teenagers are showing off, and couples cling to each other like they’re on a date straight out of a movie.
Lane steps gingerly onto the ice, knees stiff, arms awkward. She lasts three seconds before her ankle wobbles. My body moves without thought as my hands catch her waist and pull her steady against me.
Her breath hitches, visible in the cold air between us. My palms burn through her coat.
“Careful,” I murmur.
“Don’t let go,” she says, almost too soft to hear.
And just like that, I'm holding her up and she's letting me. For the first time in I don't know how long, she isn't fighting me when I want to support her, help her.
“Careful,” I murmur. Her breath catches, warm against the cold air. Our eyes lock, and her cheeks flush deeper than the wind chill can explain.
“I got you.”
Sanders zips up to us, nearly colliding with a teenager. “Mom, you're amazing at ice skating,” the little twit says with a grin as he passes.
We both laugh, the sound unguarded, dangerous. For half a heartbeat, it feels like something I’ve missed every day since I lost it.
Lane steadies herself, but she doesn’t move away. Not right away. Her hand is still in mine, warm even through the gloves. Sanders spins past us, yelling something about teaching us tricks, but I barely hear him.
For one dizzy second, this is all so natural. Even if only for the length of a Christmas trip in New York, it could be fun acting like a family again.
Then she shifts, pulling her hand free. The cold rushes in where her touch was, sharp and sobering. I skate backward, giving her space, pretending it doesn’t matter.
But I'm suddenly aware that I'm not sure what I'm pretending anymore.