Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Woody
I lean my head against the cold window, trying to find a position that doesn't make my neck scream.
Exhaustion has seeped into my bones, making even blinking too much work. The highway stretches endlessly ahead, a black ribbon disappearing into darker shadows.
The car's cabin smells of stale cigarette smoke, and the pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror is doing nothing to mask it. My phone rests on my thigh, its weight disproportionate to its size. I know what waits there—Sanders's unanswered texts asking when I'll be back.
It's 1:17 a.m. We still have two hours to Wilmington.
"Shit," I mutter, watching headlights from oncoming traffic slice through the darkness as the driver makes his way.
My thoughts keep circling back to Lane's face when I told her I was leaving. That flash of hurt before anger hardened her features. The way her voice cracked. I was trying to be understanding at first, but my old defensiveness kicked in before I realized it.
I wish I'd handled it better. I wish I hadn't stormed off like that.
You just never pick us.
I stare out the window, watching black and gray buildings and billboards zip by. It's not fair that she framed it like that. She always sees it as a choice. It's not about picking. The patient needed me. Peck couldn't handle the complications. What was I supposed to do?
There's always a choice, Woody.
Is there? If I'd stayed, a man might have died. How is that a choice?
The image of Sanders at Rockefeller Center floats through my mind. His laughter echoed across the ice, cheeks pink with cold and excitement. My chest warms at the way his face lit up at Good Morning America, so proud, so certain of what he was doing.
And Lane, with snowflakes melting in her hair, breathless and beautiful. We were all lighter for a moment. It was fleeting, but it was magical while it lasted.
For thirty-six hours, we'd been something close to a family again. Now I'm racing toward Wilmington while she's in New York with our son without me.
I rub my eyes again, feeling every one of my thirty-five years plus about twenty more.
"Just one day," I mutter to myself, the words falling flat in the empty car. "I only missed one day in New York with them."
But I know it's not about the time. It's never been about the time. It's about the pattern, the expectation, the fact that she already knew I would leave before I even said the words.
I shut my eyes for a moment. By Saturday, they'll be back. I'll make it right. Somehow.
Whatever that even means anymore.
It's 9:37 AM when I push out of the OR doors. Adrenaline still courses through my veins as I scrub out.
Three hours of intense concentration leave my hands steady but my mind racing. The scrub room's fluorescent lights bounce harshly off stainless steel surfaces as I approach the sink.
The snap of my gloves echoes against the tile walls as I peel them off. Sweat trickles down my back, dampening the collar of my scrubs. I exhale slowly, letting tension release from my shoulders.
Thorson's hip had been a nightmare. He has severe bone loss, instability issues that weren't evident on imaging were certainly a problem that had to be addressed before a successful replacement was possible.
Peck didn't want to open that can of worms without knowing everything in his history, and I don't blame him. I just wish I had seen it coming.
Water rushes over my hands, washing away surgical residue.
But we did it.
The grafts held. The prosthesis is stable. A man who couldn't walk without excruciating pain will recover, will stand, will move through his life without the limitations that had become his prison.
And his chances of infection and possible fatal injuries have been greatly reduced. Coming back to do this was the right decision. I know that. Still, emptiness settles in my chest as I reach for soap.
My mind drifts north to New York, to the Hudson River Park. They should be there now if they stuck to the plan we all made that night at the restaurant on 47th.
I can imagine Sanders there with his mom's phone held high, filming the skyline for his next video update. Luke’s probably beside him, that shy smile tugging at his pale face.
I pull out my phone and tap the TikTok app he set up for me when all this started, the one that gives me a direct window into their world.
Sure enough, there’s a new clip: the boys cutting up, palms out like they’re holding the Statue of Liberty steady from across the water. She looks small in their hands, like a toy.
And then the camera shifts, and I see her. Lane's hair blows across her face, the scarf she bought yesterday on her girl's shopping trip wrapped tightly around her neck.
A small smile tugs at my mouth, then falls away.
"Excellent work in there, Dr. Beamer." Dr. Allegheny's voice breaks through my thoughts as she enters. "Those revisions were textbook-worthy."
"Thanks." I scrub harder, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. "Thorson's femoral canal was trickier than expected. Peck might never forgive me for trying to pawn that one off on him."
"You made it look easy."
I nod absently, grabbing paper towels. My reflection stares back. I'm hollow-eyed, the exhaustion etched into my face. The man in the mirror looks nothing like the one who skated at Rockefeller Center two days ago, laughing as Lane clutched his arm for balance.
She'll never understand that this mattered, too.
I traded one kind of salvation for another. A man will walk again because I was here, not there. That has to count for something.
I toss the paper towels, straighten my shoulders, and walk out, leaving the antiseptic scent behind but carrying the weight of my choices with me.
The doctors' lounge stretches empty around me, just two residents crashed on opposite couches, dead to the world. The coffee pot sputters and hisses in the corner, filling the room with the scent of slightly burned arabica, that particular aroma of coffee that's been sitting on the warmer too long.
I sink into the vinyl armchair, legs sprawled out, surgical cap still bunched in my hand. My muscles are concrete in my body, setting hard after a full day yesterday, flying, then taking an Uber two hours back, only to sleep three hours to perform surgery this morning.
I click back to the TikTok video to watch it again.
"Luke said it was too heavy, but I told him we're super strong!" Sanders's voice bubbles through the speaker.
"It's my jazz hands that make the difference," Luke quips, wiggling his fingers dramatically.
A pure giggle bursts from Sanders. The sound hits me in the chest, and I feel my face soften.
Then Lane drifts into frame again. I expect her this time and look forward to seeing her unencumbered.
My chest tightens painfully.
I pause the video, my finger hovering over her frozen image. The smile she's wearing isn't the careful one she puts on for me. It's real. Open.
For a moment, it's as if the warmth from those few days in New York is still reaching for me, a gentle reminder of what I walked away from, what I keep walking away from.
The sensation behind my ribs is dangerously close to yearning. I exhale sharply and lock the phone.
"Don't be an idiot," I mutter, the words falling flat in the quiet room.
Lane's got Jerry. We can barely co-parent civilly. It’s bananas to think there would be a chance for anything more than that. Whatever that kiss was, it's nothing now. It has to be nothing. We tried that, and it didn't work for a reason.
The denial tastes bitter on my tongue. Beneath it lies something far more dangerous.
I toss my phone onto the sofa beside me with more force than necessary and rub the bridge of my nose, pressing until I see stars. Sleep would be the rational choice. But my muscles ache, and I have too much restless energy.
The gym. I need to move my body right now more than I need sleep.
With a clear schedule for the rest of the day, because I'm supposed to be in New York, I decide it's a perfect time to use that gym membership. I grab my stuff out of my locker and head out.
The two residents are still in the exact same spots.
The treadmill hums beneath my feet, each step driving away the haze of fatigue. Sweat drips down my temples, the rhythmic motion almost meditative after the last forty-eight hours.
My muscles burn, but it's a good pain, something I can control, unlike the wreckage I left behind in New York.
I push harder, cranking the speed until my lungs protest. The physical exertion drowns out Lane's voice echoing in my head. You just never pick us.
When I finally step off, rolling my shoulders, I spot Nate Peck near the bench press. His familiar bulk provides an unexpected comfort in the sterile hospital gym.
"You're already out of surgery?" Peck says, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry for the fire drill."
I grab a towel, wiping my face before shrugging. "You did the right thing calling. Thorson's hip was a mess. I had no idea, or I never would have asked you to step in on that."
"It's all good. I looked at the scans. You couldn't have known. Still feels like I yanked you back for nothing. I do those types of cases, I just didn't know Thorson well enough to do it on the fly," Nate adds another weight to his bar, not quite meeting my eyes.
"It was worth it. I needed an excuse to get out of there. Two days in Manhattan is enough for me." The words come automatically, but as they leave my mouth, I wonder who I'm trying to convince.
"How's Sanders doing with his fundraising thing?" Nate asks between reps.
My chest tightens. "Good. They hit two million views yesterday."
"That's amazing. What a great lesson for all of us. That #SaveChristmas Challenge really does work."
I glare at him, wondering if he's trying to guilt me or if that is my own inner voice. "It's been a wonderful experience for all of us, especially Luke and his family."
"Hate you had to duck out early. I hope Lane doesn't want to kill me."
It's not him she points her ire toward.
"Lane understands."
Nate raises an eyebrow but mercifully drops it. We trade shop talk for a few minutes before he claps me on the shoulder.
"Beer tonight? Have some things to do at the house, but would love to grab one around six if you're free? Beth and the kids are going to something in Myrtle Beach, so I'm bach-ing it up."
I nod. "That will be perfect. I'm going home for a much-needed nap, and then I'll need to get out."
Peck chuckles. "Yeah, you look like hell."
I laugh once, low and tired. "Thanks for that. I got about three hours sleep last night.
For a moment, it's nice to be seen, not as the man who left, but as the surgeon who fixed what no one else could. Still, under the surface, the hollowness lingers.
I shoulder my gym bag, heat crawling up my neck. "See you at six, man. Beer's on me."
I step outside, the late-afternoon sun hitting me square in the eyes. It's surprisingly bright and relentless on this mid-December afternoon. Just like the truth I'm running from.
I stab at the key fob, not remembering where I parked. The distant beep comes from the right, and I spot my black SUV. My gym bag weighs heavily on my shoulder, muscles still burning from the workout.
My phone vibrates against my palm. The display flashes Duke University.
"Dr. Beamer." I prop the phone between my ear and shoulder as I open the back door, and toss my bag in the back seat.
"Dr. Beamer! Gill Cleaver here, PR coordinator for Duke's transplant division. Sorry to call out of the blue. We just wrapped a board meeting, and I wanted to try to reach you as quickly as possible."
I straighten, suddenly alert. "No problem."
"I tried your wife's phone first, but it went to voicemail."
My fingers freeze on the driver's side door handle. Something cold slides down my spine.
"My—sorry—who?"
"Mrs. Beamer," Cleaver says easily. "Lane.
I wanted to run something by you. Any chance your family could come on Tuesday with the Turners for Luke's pre-op?
We're planning a feature on Luke's case and the #SaveChristmas campaign, and figured with them already coming, if we could get Sanders here, too, we can put together some good material. "
Wife. Lane. Mrs. Beamer.
The words skip like stones across the surface of my thoughts.
"Uh, yeah, that sounds nice." My mind races as I think ahead to my schedule on Tuesday. Sanders is out of school, but I'm supposed to be working. Fuck. More shuffling.
"The board wants to highlight what happens behind the scenes when a patient gets a transplant. We love your son's story about creating this fundraiser, the boys' friendship, everything. It's all so wonderful, it would be a shame not to tap into that to help bring awareness."
My throat tightens, the familiar ache spreading through my chest. "Right."
"Can we count on you both on Tuesday? The feature team is excited to meet Sanders, and of course, the parents behind this amazing story."
I hesitate, hand pressed flat against my car, steadying myself. The cold metal grounds me, but barely.
"I'll have to talk to my—" Holy shit. Did I almost refer to her as my wife!?
I clear my throat. "I'll have to talk to Lane and get back to you.
They are still in New York until tomorrow afternoon.
Is it okay if I get back to you after that?
I know that is tight on timing, but if we can't all be there, I can almost assure at least Sanders will. And I'll work on the rest of us."
"Perfect. Just let us know as soon as you can so we can make arrangements."
The call ends, and I lower the phone slowly, staring at the cracked asphalt beneath my feet.
Wife. My wife.
After the way I left New York, after the look she gave me, how the hell am I supposed to ask her to stand beside me again? To smile for the cameras. To act like we’re still something we’re not.