Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Lane
Steam curls from my mug, rising between us like a question I don’t dare ask.
I clutch the ceramic tighter, letting the burn seep into my palms, anything to keep me steady. Woody stands a step away, bare-chested, with defined abs I once knew by heart. My pulse hammers, my tongue suddenly too big for my mouth. God help me, I can’t stop staring.
I should move. I should say something. Anything but stand here, caught between memory and now, while my ex-husband stands inches away in nothing but a towel.
“Goodnight, Woody.” The words rasp out husky, shaky, nothing like the steady tone I aimed for.
I push past him, desperate to escape before we do something we can’t take back. Our shoulders brush, a jolt that shoots straight through me, turning a blip into inevitability.
Woody doesn’t step aside. He only turns his head, tracking me, his eyes locking on mine. For a heartbeat, I don’t know if I have the strength, or even the will, to keep going.
His hair is darker when wet, curling slightly at the temples where threads of silver catch the dim light. Water still glistens along the hard line of his collarbone, trailing down to the defined planes of his chest. My fingers remember the texture of that skin, the warmth beneath.
I forget how to breathe.
The space between us is charged, dangerous in its smallness. If I reached out, I might not let go. The thought sends heat spiraling through me, settling low in my belly.
This is Woody, I remind myself. The man who broke every promise he ever made to you. The only man who ever broke my heart.
But my body doesn't care about old betrayals. It remembers other things like his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me in darkness.
I step forward, and his scent grabs hold of me. The delicious soap and warm skin and something distinctly him. My shoulder is still touching his, and a part of me desperately doesn't want to lose that contact. But I have to. I can't do this.
Don't look back, I order myself. Just keep walking.
"Goodnight, Lane." His voice follows me, low and rough, laced with something that sounds like regret.
I pause for a fraction of a second, my hand already on the edge of my door. Safety is so close I can almost taste it. The urge to turn is almost overwhelming, to see if his eyes hold the same heat burning through me. To find out what would happen if I stepped back toward him instead of away.
But I know what would happen. And I'm not ready for that collapse, for everything I've carefully rebuilt to come tumbling down.
I step into my room and close the door behind me, leaning against it as if to hold back the tide of want that threatens to drown me.
My hands shake so badly that tea sloshes over the rim as I set the mug on the nightstand. Drops splash onto the polished wood, amber puddles that I can't bring myself to wipe away.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Each breath comes quick and shallow. The room that was comfortable before I left to make tea is now too warm, too close.
"God, get it together," I whisper, pressing my palms against my thighs. The pressure grounds me, but only barely.
I reach for the tea, wrapping both hands around the mug. The ceramic burns my palms. Good. The peppermint is sharp and clean on my tongue, scalding as I take a long sip. The pain helps clear my head, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
Behind my eyelids waits a slideshow I can't shut off.
I see Woody's bare chest, water droplets trailing paths I once traced with my fingertips.
The towel riding low on his hips, the light trail of hair below his belly button leading down.
The way his eyes darkened when I brushed past him, how they followed me across the room.
"No," I mutter, shaking my head hard. "No, no, no."
My body refuses reason. My skin sparks with memory, as if seven years never passed. Every nerve strains toward him, hungry, reckless.
I don’t want this. I can’t. Not after everything.
But desire doesn’t give a damn about betrayal or broken promises. It remembers the press of his hands, the slide of his mouth, the way his body once claimed every inch of mine.
He is doing it without even trying. Just standing there, existing in the same space as me, and suddenly I'm coming undone. Seven years of careful distance shattered by one night in a shared hotel suite.
I drag air into my lungs. I've built a life without him. A good one. We've finally gotten into our groove as co-parents, navigating these necessary joint activities without a nervous breakdown every time. I have my job, my garden, my friends.
The last thing I need to do is complicate that balance by making a stupid, momentary lapse.
All the rational thoughts in the world can't slow my racing pulse.
I sink back against the pillows, my fist clutched to my chest like a shield.
"One night," I whisper. "Just get through tonight."
I finish my tea, brush my teeth, and pad back to my bed. My mind is still racing, and I know I won't sleep. Before our little run-in, the sheets were too rough against my skin and the pillow too flat. Now, compound that with the ghost of half-naked Woody just across the hall.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring into my empty mug of tea. The city hums outside—car horns, distant sirens, the perpetual breath of Manhattan at night.
It's not him. It can't be him.
It's everything else, the whirlwind of Sanders's fundraiser, the blur of cameras and interviews, the magic of New York at Christmas. It's seeing my son's face light up when dreams become reality. It's the heady rush of doing something that matters.
That's all this is. Circumstantial chemistry.
My fingers tighten around my ankles as I pull my legs in tighter. The pain grounds me, keeps me from floating away on what-ifs and maybes.
Logic can't smother longing. I can list all the reasons we failed, but my body remembers other things—the curve of his smile when Sanders was born, the safety of his arms during thunderstorms, how he'd read medical journals aloud to put himself to sleep and me along with him.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand. The sudden intrusion slices through my spiraling thoughts like a blade.
I reach for it, grateful for the distraction from the dangerous path my mind keeps wandering down.
I flip my phone over, expecting Carly, checking about tomorrow's schedule, or Maggie, demanding gossip.
Instead, the name flashing on my screen stops my breath in my chest. It's Jerry.
I miss you. I want to see you. Can we talk?
I blink, certain I've misread, but there it is, clear as day. His text is short, simple, devastating in its timing.
The floor tilts under me, pitching me sideways. I shove the phone away fast, like it’s red-hot metal.
You've got to be kidding me.
Almost five years together, and we've tried, but we both know it won't work. We've done the break-up and then get back together dance so many times, most people don't even blink now. But it's been three months now. This time was it. This breakup was supposed to stick.
His timing couldn't be more on the nose. Now, when I'm three states away, sharing a suite with my ex-husband, wrestling with feelings I shouldn't be having.
I stare at the darkened screen, waiting for it to light up again with another message. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. Here I am, desperate for any distraction from thoughts of Woody, and Jerry materializes like some relationship ghost.
My fingers tremble as I stare at the phone, tempted to respond. What would I even say? Sorry, can't talk, too busy fighting attraction to the man who broke my heart seven years ago.
Is this fate? A sign that I should run back to the safety of something familiar? Or just cosmically bad luck?
I can't even tell anymore.
The phone's glow illuminates the ceiling as another text arrives.
I know it's late. I just wanted to hear your voice. I have gifts for you and Sanders. And I really just miss you, Lane. I love you.
A cold ache spreads through me as I try to untangle the mess of my suddenly complicated personal life. One man shadows me from the next room, barefoot and half-naked. Another invades through my phone, his words tugging at a need I don’t dare ignore.
Neither should matter. Both do.
I flip the phone face down on the nightstand. Not to make him wonder, not to play games. Just because I refuse to open that door again.
Jerry was a rebound, a comfort when I didn’t know better. We were never built to last, and I won’t fall back into the habit of answering him just because I want a warm body or a comforting voice.
A siren wails in the street below, the sound rising and fading like my own unrest. The city keeps moving, relentless, while I lie here paralyzed, caught between past and present, unsure which direction is safe to go.
The studio lights scorch my face. They're hot and merciless. I cross and uncross my ankles, perched on the edge of the Good Morning America couch like I might bolt at any second.
"Stop fidgeting," I whisper to Sanders, when really I'm telling it to myself. I grip my knees through my navy dress.
A makeup artist swoops in, dabbing powder on my cheeks. "Just a touch-up, honey. Those lights are brutal."
The studio buzzes around us. There are producers with headsets barking instructions, camera operators adjusting angles, and assistants rushing back and forth with clipboards and coffee.
Sanders bounces on the couch beside Woody, pointing at everything with unfiltered excitement.
"Mom! Look at all those cameras! Is that Michael Strahan over there? He looks exactly like he does on ESPN, only bigger!"
I nod, unable to form words past the knot in my throat. This is surreal. Yesterday morning, we were in Wilmington, and now we're about to be broadcast to millions of homes across America from a studio in one of the biggest cities in the world.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," Woody murmurs, leaning closer. His cologne hits me. It's subtle, woodsy, achingly familiar. The memory of last night flashes through me: dim kitchen light, bare skin, that perfect vee disappearing into the towel.
Heat climbs my neck. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Still beautiful. I just meant nervous. No one else would know." A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Your right foot always taps when you're nervous."
I stop my foot mid-tap, annoyed he still notices these things about me.
Robin Roberts strides toward us, radiant in a crimson dress. Her smile is exactly as warm in person as on television.
"You must be the Beamers! I feel like I already know you."
Beamers? I open my mouth to correct her, but freeze when Woody's hand settles on my back, steadying.
"I'm Woody Beamer, this is Lane Beamer, and our son Sanders. And this is Carly Turner with Luke and Leigh."
Robin shakes each hand, gracious and magnetic. "So lovely to meet you all. What you're doing for Luke is just beautiful."
We're guided to our positions on the curved sofa. Sanders sits between Woody and me, vibrating with excitement. Luke and Leigh settle beside their mother across from us. Carly looks exhausted but proud, her hands constantly smoothing Luke's collar, adjusting Leigh's hair.
The floor director counts down. "Five, four, three..." He points silently for two and one.
The ON AIR light blinks red. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Robin turns to the camera, her voice warm and polished. "This morning, we have a story that's captured hearts across the country. Two boys, one incredible mission, and the power of Christmas spirit through the viral sensation to save Christmas."
After a few questions to soften up the boys and introduce them to the world, Robin asks them how they met.
Sanders launches into their story before Luke can answer. "I met Luke when my dad had to do emergency surgery, and I was waiting in the hospital."
"I was doing dialysis," Luke interrupts, holding up his arm to show his fistula, surprisingly confident under the lights. "That's when they clean my blood because my kidneys don't work."
Their voices overlap, finishing each other's sentences, explaining the videos and the fundraiser with pure, unfiltered excitement.
I watch them, these beautiful, earnest boys, and my throat closes with emotion. The entire country is witnessing this moment. This is why they are a viral sensation, why their story matters. It's Sanders' golden heart, Luke's quiet strength.
I glance at Woody. Behind his composed smile, I catch the shimmer of moisture in his eyes. He feels it too.
Our eyes meet, a fraction too long, and I wonder if the cameras catch what I can’t quite hide.