Chapter 10
TEN
Woody
The night air bites through my coat as we step outside. Manhattan glitters around us. Traffic lights bleed red and yellow across wet pavement, and more vehicles than the eye can see are still bumper to bumper, even at this hour.
Christmas decorations twinkle overhead. For a second, I forget we're here for a TV show and a medical appointment. It feels like something else entirely.
Sanders and Luke charge ahead, shoulders hunched against the cold, whispering some conspiracy only nine-year-old boys understand. I catch fragments about video games and midnight snacks.
"Can Luke spend the night with us? Please? We want to watch Elf together," Sanders pleads, turning back to tug at Lane's hand. The streetlight catches her profile, that stubborn chin I know so well, tilting in the familiar way that means she's about to say no.
"We only have two bedrooms, honey. One for me and one for your dad. We don't have any extra room. How about when we get back home to North Carolina?"
Sanders groans like we've just canceled Christmas, stomping one foot dramatically. Luke's face crumples, the excitement draining away. They're tired, obviously, and it's best that everyone gets a good night's rest.
I open my mouth to suggest figuring out something for tomorrow night, but Carly jumps in first.
"How about this?" she asks. "If your parents agree, Sanders, you boys stay in our suite tonight, but only if you promise to sleep and wake up early. You can stay up to watch only half the movie, and we'll finish it tomorrow after dialysis."
"I think that's a good compromise." Leigh, tiny sentinel of justice, crosses her arms with the conviction of someone three times her age.
"We will!" Sanders gasps, hand over heart like he's taking a sacred vow.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. These kids. I'd forgotten what it's like to be around more than one at once, the constant negotiation, the drama. Sanders at home is one thing. Sanders with friends is a whole different experience.
Lane sighs beside me, and I can read her surrender in the slight drop of her shoulders.
"Fine," she points at our son with the universal mom-finger of warning.
"But no pranks, no midnight YouTube, and you're up by five-thirty to get ready for Good Morning America. That's early. You think you can do it?"
The boys high-five, victory secured.
I walk beside Lane, watching her shake her head with that half-smile that's always meant I know I shouldn't let him, but...
For a fleeting moment, it feels like we're on the same side. Co-parents, not exes. We've fallen into this rhythm since this whole thing started so naturally that I almost forgot things were so different only a few days ago.
Lane catches me watching and raises an eyebrow. I expect her usual defensive wall to slide into place, but instead, there's just a resigned smile that tugs at something in my chest.
Our little parade turns the corner toward the hotel, neon signs reflecting off glass facades. The night stretches ahead.
It's just another evening in a shared hotel room in New York City with my ex-wife. Nothing special.
Back in the suite, Sanders becomes a mini-whirlwind, his pajama top dangling from one arm, toothbrush jammed in his mouth, clothes and gadgets scattering like shrapnel as he packs.
"Buddy." I can't help but laugh at his frantic energy. "You'll just be down the hall, and we'll see you at breakfast. You're not moving to Alaska."
He mumbles something unintelligible through toothpaste foam, stuffing a hoodie into his already bulging arms.
"I know, but I need my charger, my Switch, my hoodie—"
Lane kneels beside him, that maternal efficiency taking over as she reorganizes his chaos. He's spending the night fifty feet away for a few hours, and suddenly it's a full relocation.
Her fingers work deftly, zipping compartments while Sanders bounces off the walls. She brushes hair from his forehead in that absent, automatic way she's always had, a gesture so small but so essentially Lane that my chest tightens watching it.
"Brush your teeth again," she says, inspecting his face. "You barely touched them."
Sanders rolls his eyes dramatically but trudges back to the bathroom. The water runs in quick, performative bursts.
I stand awkwardly by the door, hands in pockets, suddenly hyperaware that I'll be alone with Lane in a hotel suite. In New York City. At Christmastime.
The hum of city traffic filters through the windows, filling what might otherwise be uncomfortable silence.
When Sanders emerges, I seize the opportunity for movement. "Ready, Squirt? I'll walk you down there."
His small hand slips into mine as we walk the carpeted hallway. The soft pile muffles our footsteps, lending everything a dreamlike quality. Or maybe that's just the surreal situation. New York, Good Morning America, viral sensation, sharing space with Lane again.
"Dad? You think Luke's kidney doctor will let him swim after he gets a new one?"
"I think so, eventually. It takes time to heal, though."
"Like when you fixed my arm?"
"Much longer than that, Bud. But yeah, like that."
We reach Carly's door, and Sanders knocks with far more enthusiasm than necessary. "Not so loud, Squirt. People are sleeping."
"Sorry," he offers with a sly grin.
Carly answers, looking less exhausted than earlier. Behind her, I hear Luke and Leigh already giggling about something.
"All set?" she asks.
Sanders nods, dropping my hand to rush inside. Just like that, he's gone, absorbed into their little temporary family unit. "Don't hesitate to call either of us if you need us. We're about ten doors down. If they're being too wound up, send him packing."
"They'll be fine. Get some rest, see you in the morning."
"Good night."
The door clicks closed softly, and I stand there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of children's laughter fade. The hallway stretches empty in both directions.
For a moment, the silence presses in, a reminder of how often I've missed these small, ordinary moments. Bedtime rituals. School mornings. The rhythm of parenthood that Lane navigates daily.
She's right. I get to be the fun dad, while she handles the mundane. But it's the mundane that I crave.
I tell myself this is good. Sanders is happy. Lane is calm. Everything's fine.
But it doesn't stop the hollow ache that creeps in.
I exhale slowly, run a hand through my hair, and head back toward our room, telling myself that distance is the safer choice tonight.
The suite door clicks shut behind me, muffling the distant elevator hum. The room is still. Lane's bedroom door stands closed, a sliver of light seeping beneath it. My steps slow as I pass, fingers almost brushing the wood before I catch myself.
What am I doing?
I shake my head, moving toward my own room. The living area sits between us is neutral territory. The city's glow dances through half-drawn curtains. It's best we don't go there at this point.
Outside, New York continues its relentless pace, while time seems suspended in here.
My room is empty despite my suitcase sprawled open on the luggage rack. I strip methodically, removing my shoes, watch, shirt, and pants. The shower beckons, promising to turn off my muscles and loosen the tension from a long day of travel and ice skating.
Hot water drums against my shoulders, loosening knots I didn't know I carried. Steam billows around me as my mind drifts.
Sanders's radiant face when he spotted the Rockefeller tree flashes across my mind. I love the way his mouth formed a perfect 'o' of wonder.
I think about Lane's hand in mine on the ice, that startled look when I caught her. For a moment, she'd forgotten to pull away.
Then, it's her laugh across the diner table when Leigh made that crack about boys being "sus" and her single dimple appearing despite her best efforts, just like Sanders's.
I'd forgotten that laugh. How it used to fill our kitchen on Sunday mornings. How it slowly disappeared in those final years of our marriage when my pager became the third person in our marriage.
The water runs cooler now. I shut it off, grab a towel, and roughly dry my hair before wrapping it around my waist.
The mirror has fogged completely, my reflection a ghost of itself. Probably for the best.
I brush my teeth, avoiding my own eyes. This whole situation is complicated enough without acknowledging what I'm really feeling. I'm here for Sanders. For his fundraiser. For Luke.
Not because being near Lane again feels like finding something I misplaced years ago.
My throat is suddenly parched. I grab the glass from my nightstand, padding barefoot into the living area for water. The ice machine hums down the hall, but the sink will do.
I don't expect to find Lane standing there in the dim light, her back to me, staring at the kettle resting on the red ring on the stovetop.
I freeze in the doorway. Lane stands at the kitchenette counter, illuminated only by the soft glow of under-cabinet lights. The kettle hums, water almost at its boiling point.
When she notices me, her eyes widen slightly, then drop, taking in my bare chest, the water still tracking down my skin, the towel knotted at my waist. The assessment lasts only a second before she jerks her gaze back to her mug.
My pulse spikes. I’ve been in operating rooms with less tension than this tiny kitchenette.
I cross to the sink because turning around at this point would only make it more awkward. I came out here for water, so I’m getting the damn water.
The faucet handle is slick under my fingers as I twist it. It rushes out like a hose on full blast, nearly sloshing over the edge of the glass before I catch myself and crank it down.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Didn’t know you were still up.”
Her knuckles whiten around the mug. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought tea might help.”
I nod, take a sip of water just to keep my hands busy. “Yeah, my mind's racing, too. It's been a long day. A good one.”
“Yeah, it has,” she says quietly, eyes flicking toward me for half a beat before darting away again.
The kettle whistles. The sharp shrill startles us both. Lane jumps, then lets out a quick laugh that cracks the silence. I almost laugh too, but the sound sticks in my throat.
We’re standing too close, saying almost nothing, and yet it feels like everything is being said at once.
I'm abruptly aware of everything. The distance between us is measured in inches instead of the careful miles we usually keep. The soft light catches auburn highlights in her hair I’d forgotten about.
The refrigerator hums. A car horn blares nineteen floors below. My pulse hammers in my ears.
And then it hits me. I'm standing here wearing virtually nothing. My ears burn at the realization. I’m not shy, never have been, but right now I’m uncomfortably aware I shouldn’t be here like this. Not with Lane.
She shifts her weight, thumb tracing the rim of her mug in small circles. The gesture is so familiar it aches. I'm well aware of her nervous habit when she's trying not to say something all too well.
I should walk away. Back to my room. Put on clothes. Maintain the careful distance we've cultivated over the years.
I don't move.
Neither does she.
The kettle's hum grows louder, more insistent. Steam billows from its spout in thicker clouds.
I breathe in the scent of her tea. Peppermint and lavender. It's the same blend she used to drink every night before bed, curled against me with her Kindle while I completed charts. The memory hits so hard I nearly stagger.
She turns off the burner. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap.
The air is different, charged by the sudden silence. Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. Perhaps it’s recognition of the absurdity, the tension.
She laughs softly, and my own chuckle follows. The two sounds meet, breaking the fragile distance we’ve been holding.
"I didn't mean to—" I gesture vaguely at myself, self-conscious.
"It's your hotel room, too." Her voice is carefully neutral, but her eyes betray her.
The silence returns, not quite as sharp but still weighted with things unsaid.
The laughter between us fades, leaving a silence that feels both empty and full. I take a slow sip of water, my throat suddenly desert-dry. My skin is still damp from the shower, but at least now there aren't swollen droplets clinging to my skin.
Lane reaches for the kettle, pouring steaming water over her tea bag. The movement is careful and deliberate. Each gesture is measured as if she’s performing surgery instead of making tea.
The peppermint sharpens the instant the water hits, filling the space. I caught a trace of it in the dry bag, but now it’s everywhere.
Neither of us moves. That’s what strikes me most. For more than a decade, every time we’ve been in the same room, it’s been because of something else, whether it be my schedule colliding with hers, the fights that followed, lawyers sliding papers across polished tables, or Sanders needing us to be civil long enough to share a school event or a doctor’s appointment.
There has always been a buffer, a purpose, a reason to endure each other, for as long as I can remember now. The good moments with just us, those are distant memories.
But not now. Tonight there’s no wedge, no pager buzzing on my hip, no court order keeping us tethered. Just the hush of the suite, the kettle cooling behind her, and the weight of seven years of things neither of us has dared to say.
And underneath it, an ache I can’t name. I haven’t let myself feel this with Lane in years, but it’s here, undeniable. I want to touch her, to close the inches we’ve kept between us for so long.
My skin prickles with awareness. Warmth radiates from where she stands, barely two feet away. Close enough that if I shifted my weight, our arms might brush. The thought sends a shock through me.
She dips her tea bag, eyes fixed on the turbulent amber liquid. But her composure wavers. I notice the slight tremor in her fingers, the way she draws her bottom lip between her teeth, that unconscious tell she's waging a battle, too.
For a moment, I wonder if she’s caught in the same fight, wanting to move closer and terrified of what it would mean.