Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Lane
We spill out of Macy’s into the churn of Herald Square.
The afternoon sun slants low, gilding the tops of the buildings and throwing long shadows across the street.
Digital billboards and storefront signs are already glowing, colors flickering against the glass as if they can’t wait for night to fall.
I adjust my bags, pretending the ache in my shoulders is the only reason my pulse won’t calm down.
All day, I keep going back to the studio, to Woody’s mouth on mine. Seven years of angst and surviving each other vanished in an instant with one hot, inevitable kiss.
I try to shake it off, even as my mind demands I make sense of it.
Not now.
The air truly smells like roasted chestnuts from a street cart, cut with car exhaust and the sharp bite of winter. My arches ache from walking, my arms from carrying bags, but Carly and Leigh are still pointing out window displays like they’re on a treasure hunt.
"I'm officially shopped out," I announce, adjusting my bags. "How does anyone do this all day?"
Carly laughs, her cheeks flushed pink from the department store heat. "Right? I've walked more today than I do in a week at home. I've never had the freedom to do this. It's fun but exhausting!" She kneels to fix Leigh's blue knit hat, which keeps sliding over her eyes.
"My toes are sleeping," Leigh declares, wiggling one foot dramatically.
My phone beeps deep in my bag. I dig past crumpled receipts and a half-melted lip balm.
I smile as soon as I see the screen and Woody’s name in the bubble. My pulse stutters.
Grabbing the phone a little too enthusiastically, I click the text. Looking up, I see Carly and Leigh are still caught up in the window displays. I slow my pace, giddy to see what his message says.
Dialysis done. Luke's wiped out. Boys and I talked—we're just gonna head back to the hotel. We'll stop for a hot dog on the way. Chill night. Movies + ice cream.
A warm sensation unfurls in my chest despite the nip in the air. I can picture Sanders right now, gangly limbs tucked into one of those metal folding chairs beside Luke's bed, both boys hunched over a phone, ketchup probably smeared on Sanders' cheek.
"Hey, Carly. The boys are finished with dialysis."
She turns toward me, the question already written on her face. "How is Luke?"
"Woody said they want to go back to the hotel and take it easy. What do you say to a movie and room service for the rest of today?"
Leigh jumps and lets out a cheer. "Yeah! I want to show the boys what we got. And I love room service."
"You've never had room service, silly," Carly laughs and pats her on the fanny. Then she looks up at me. "That sounds amazing. I'm ready for a break!"
I type back.
Perfect. We're heading in too. Long day—ready for a quiet night.
"Any news about the treatment? I trust all went well." Carly asks, adjusting her scarf against the wind.
"None specifically. Sounds like Luke's tired, but otherwise it was a success."
"That's normal for him. I figured that would be the case." Carly sighs, her expression softening with the familiar concern of a mother who's spent too many years watching her child's body betray him. "Dialysis always sucks the energy out of him."
We dodge a family taking photos in front of the decorated windows. Leigh skips ahead, then circles back like a tiny blonde satellite unwilling to stray too far.
"If I walk another block, my feet may stage a mutiny, so this is perfect timing," Carly laughs, her hand pressed against her lower back.
"Mine already did," I admit. Our laughter blends with the street noise. Carly is easy to be around. It's amazing how well we all travel together. This trip has been infinitely better than I could have imagined.
For a moment, everything feels simple. Could it really be this easy, this right?
I let myself picture tonight: pajamas, popcorn, the kids sprawled in a blanket fort, Woody’s presence heavy beside me. A slow ache unfurls in my core.
I jerk my head, banishing it. No. I can’t be thinking about my ex like that.
I tuck my phone away and link arms with Carly as we head down the subway steps, back toward our families.
Our families.
We stop at Carly’s suite, since it's closer to the elevator. Woody brought the boys there after the clinic so Luke could rest in his bed.
The door clicks shut behind us, muting the hallway’s bright glare in the already darkened room. Luke and Sanders laugh at something on the television while stretched out on the pull-out sofa.
Our combined shopping bags rustle as we drop them near the entryway.
“We’re back!” I call, and the answering giggles from the boys spill through the space.
Sanders's head pops up first, chocolate ice cream smeared across his chin. "Mom! Dad got us all ice cream, and our fundraiser is up to eighty-four thousand dollars!"
"Well, that's amazing. Where is your dad?"
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Woody walks in from the bedroom, holding his phone to his ear. The sight of him in sock feet, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar with sleeves rolled up, sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
He ends his call and pockets his phone. I can't help but track the veins snaking up his arm. I pull my eyes up as soon as I realize what I'm doing.
"I see you boys kept busy," I murmur, adjusting my purse on my shoulder while avoiding his eyes. This is the first time we've seen each other since the kiss this morning. It hovers between us, unacknowledged but impossible to forget.
Carly walks over to Luke, touches his forehead with her lips, then kisses him before collapsing onto the chair beside the sofa, kicking off her boots. "Walking around Manhattan is something you should train for."
She doesn't fuss over him, but makes sure he is well. A pang in my chest rises and sticks in my throat.
Leigh races over, blonde hair flying. "We're watching movies tonight! Make room for me!"
Carly runs her fingers through Luke's thinning hair. "I was thinking. What if we all camp out in my room tonight since y'all are already set up? Luke can rest but still hang with everyone."
"Yes!" Sanders pumps his fist. "You said I could sleep over again. Can we, Mom?"
Woody carries an armful of pillows, our hands brushing as I take one. Neither of us acknowledges the contact. "I already asked the front desk for more bedding, and they just delivered. Perfect timing."
"The Santa Clause," Sanders announces, waving the remote. "It's the best Christmas movie ever."
Luke shakes his head. "No way. The Grinch wins."
"That's cap," Sanders retorts. "Jim Carrey is scary as the Grinch."
"Leigh gets to break the tie," Woody suggests, settling cross-legged on the floor.
Leigh grins with smug authority. "I pick... Diary of a Wimpy Kid Christmas: Cabin Fever!"
"Betrayed!" Sanders flops dramatically onto the pillows.
For the next hour, we exist in this bubble of normalcy—laughing at the movie, passing snacks, shushing excited commentary. I catch myself watching Woody more than the screen, the way he leans forward at Sanders's jokes, how he makes sure Luke's water is always within reach.
Carly eventually yawns and retreats to her bedroom with a paperback. "Don't stay up too late, monsters. I'm turning in."
The kids form a puppy pile of blankets and limbs, eyelids growing heavy. I lean down to smooth Sanders's hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Are you sure this is how y'all want to sleep? Doesn't look very comfortable to me."
"Yes, Mom. Shh. I'm trying to listen."
"Sorry. I'm going to head down the hall. You know which room if you need us, right?"
He nods his head gently but definitely nudges me away from hovering.
Across the nest, Woody gently adjusts Luke's pillow, his hand lingering on the boy's bony shoulder. For once, we’re moving in rhythm. No push and pull, no undercurrent of strain.
Ease.
As we walk to our room, Woody's phone rings. "I've got to take this."
I nod and unlock the door, looking forward to a long shower. I reach for the hotel robe hanging on the bathroom door when footsteps approach. I turn just as Woody appears in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the common area light.
Something's wrong. His body is rigid, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the same posture from a hundred arguments past.
"What's wrong?" My stomach tightens with instinctive dread.
"I booked the last flight out tonight," he says evenly. "I land in Raleigh-Durham at midnight and then drive to Wilmington from there. I have to be in surgery first thing tomorrow morning."
The words knock the air from my lungs. Of course this is happening again.
"You're kidding me, right?" My voice shakes, as if someone jerked the rug out from under me.
He doesn't answer, just looks at me with those same eyes that he always gave when telling me work trumps everything. Heat crawls up my neck as the familiar hurt crashes over me. Different year, same abandonment.
"I wish I were. It's a case that Peck covered for me today. It went sideways, and he doesn't feel comfortable. The patient is in the ICU until I can open him back—"
"I don't want to hear it, Woody. It doesn't matter. "My pulse hammers beneath my skin. I hate how my voice trembles, betraying the hurt beneath my anger.
"Lane, this isn't—"
"Isn't what? Isn't exactly what you've always done?" The words tumble out faster, sharper.
His jaw flexes, the muscle twitching beneath stubbled skin. "This is my job. People count on me."
"And what about the people right here?" I gesture wildly, feeling suddenly frantic. "The ones you promised to spend these few days with? Are we not allowed to count on you?"
I hate myself for saying it as soon as the words are in the open. I let myself count on him.
Woody's shoulders snap back as if I've slapped him. "You think I want this? I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice, Woody." My voice shakes despite my efforts to sound strong. "You just never pick us."
His hands curl at his sides, knuckles whitening. The familiar stance of a man gathering his defense. I've seen it a hundred times before. The room shrinks around us, the air growing thicker with each breath. I watch him struggle for composure, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.
"I'm just going to go ahead and go." He turns to leave. "I don't need to stand here and get torn apart for doing my job."
The distance between us spans more than just feet. It's years of the same argument, different hotel, different emergency, same ending.
"Go, then." My throat burns with words I've swallowed too many times. "That's what you do best."
My chest is hollow, carved out, and empty. The tears build behind my eyes but refuse to fall. I won't cry in front of him. Not again.
We kissed today, I want to scream. The boys need you here. I—
But the thought dies unfinished. I stand in the doorway of my room, arms crossed, waiting to see what else we will say. Surely there is more, after this morning, after all we have done together these last several days.
In what seems like seconds, as if he'd already packed up while we were gone, he hoists his bag over his shoulder. He glances at me but doesn't say a thing. Clinical. Removed. Gone even before he reaches the door.
The door closes with a click that reverberates in the empty space like a gunshot in my chest.
I stand frozen for several heartbeats, my lungs paralyzed, eyes fixed on the space where he stood. The emptiness roars around me, pressing against my skin.
My knees finally give out. I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands gripping the duvet so tight my knuckles ache.
His words echo in my head: I don't need to stand here and get torn apart for doing my job. As if I'm the unreasonable one. As if I'm asking for something extraordinary by wanting him to stay with his son.
The first tear slides hot down my cheek, then another, until they're falling too fast to count. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to force them back, but they leak through my fingers, anyway.
Tomorrow, Sanders will look for his dad. Tomorrow I’ll be the one who has to explain why he’s not here. And I don’t know how to do it without breaking him the way Woody just broke me.