Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Lane
The down bedding swallows me as I stare at the ceiling of this hotel room that costs more per night than my weekly grocery bill. New York never sleeps, and it turns out, neither can I at the moment.
My thumb slides across my phone screen as images of our time here blur together. I smile at a shot of Sanders and Luke beaming on Good Morning America. The comments pour in about how inspiring they are, and the donations are still climbing. I ought to be elated.
Instead, my mind keeps circling back to that moment in the studio.
Woody's lips against mine. The way his hands found my waist like they remembered exactly where to land. Seven years dissolved in seconds.
And then he left. Again.
It's not like I lost anything I thought I had. We've been divorced for what feels like a lifetime. I knew in my gut he hadn't changed. So why is it torturing me? I hate myself for going there.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I toss my phone aside on the comforter and press my forearm so hard into my eyes that sparks dance behind my eyelids.
"Stop thinking about him," I whisper to the empty room. "Just stop."
But the hollow ache in my chest won't let me. A lump rises in my throat, and I fight to swallow it down. No more tears for Dr. Woody Beamer. I've given him enough.
My phone buzzes against the blanket, startling me from my thoughts. The screen illuminates with a name I've been avoiding for weeks.
Jerry. Christ.
My finger hovers over the decline button. It's nearly midnight. Nothing good comes from midnight calls with any man, especially him.
But the silence presses in, and suddenly I can't bear another minute alone with my thoughts about Woody. At least Jerry wants to be with me. At least he calls. At least he stays.
I swipe to answer.
"Hey, Jer." My voice comes out soft, tentative, like it belongs to someone else.
"Lane? I hope I didn't wake you." Jerry's familiar voice fills the line, smooth and warm. "I was just tossing and turning, thinking about you, and thought I'd try."
I shift against the pillows, pulling my knees to my chest. "It's late. Normally, I would be sleeping, but I was looking at pictures."
"I saw you on TV yesterday. It's so impressive what Sanders has done." A pause for just a moment before he continues. "You looked beautiful."
The compliment slides over me, not quite landing where it might if someone else delivered it. That's always been our problem. His words touch the surface but never reach where I need them to.
"Thanks. We're really in shock at how this has unfolded. It's been a whirlwind, for sure." I pick at a loose thread on the comforter. We? Seriously. I'm officially insane.
"Woody must've loved playing the hero on national television."
The jab lands exactly where he intended. My jaw tightens, but I force my voice to stay even.
"He let Sanders do all the shining. He's already back at work."
Jerry chuckles knowingly. "Of course he is."
I don't rise to the bait, but my chest constricts. Jerry always knew exactly which buttons to push about Woody, sliding into the gaps my ex-husband left behind. That's always been his superpower.
"I miss you. The house is empty without you dropping by." He pauses. "I was thinking maybe when you get back, we could talk?"
My eyes drift to the doorway where Woody and I argued last night. The ache in my chest intensifies.
"Jerry, I—"
"I know what you're going to say. Just let me see you. It's Christmas and I can't bear the thought of not seeing you over the holidays."
"Don't do this, not now." I keep my voice firm but gentle. The last thing I need is to slip into something easy to fill the ache in my chest. That's how we ended up together for so many years.
"Don't you miss what we had at all?" Jerry's voice drops lower, that banker's confidence shining through. "We were good together, Lane. I will work on whatever you need me to do. I want to be the man you need."
I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. The heater kicks on, its low hum filling the silence between us.
"Jerry, we talked about this. We were good together in many ways, but we both agreed we aren't good for the long haul. You don't need to change, you're amazing just the way you are. We just don't fit."
He sighs, unbothered, with a practiced calm that hits me square in the gut. I do love Jerry, I just don't want to be with him like that anymore. And I'm pretty sure that if it weren't Christmas, he wouldn't be calling me like this, either.
"I know, I know. I just miss you so damn much." I hear a hitch in his voice. He clears his throat. "Listen, I got a few things for you and Sanders. Can I see you to give them to you, at least? Maybe we can do dinner together, just to catch up."
The old ache stirs, sharp as ever. So many years together means patterns that don’t break easily. Of course he bought gifts.
"You didn't have to do that." The ceiling seems impossibly far away as I stare up at it.
"I know. But I wanted to."
"Look, I should go. It's late, and tomorrow's packed with—"
"Just dinner," he interrupts. "For old times' sake."
The path of least resistance beckons. My fingers press against my temple.
"We fly back tomorrow, but we'll be exhausted from travel, I'm sure. What about you come over for dinner on Sunday? I can roast a chicken."
"That would be amazing." He accepts too easily, which should be my first warning.
When the call disconnects, silence rushes back in like an unwelcome guest. I stare at my reflection on the dark screen of my phone. I'm not sure if that was the smartest move, but it is Christmas, after all. Just dinner.
Jerry's voice used to be my comfort, a steady presence when Woody was absent. Now it's just an echo of something that no longer fits, a sweater I've outgrown but keep trying on, anyway.
I set the phone face down on the nightstand and exhale slowly. The emptiness of the room presses in, and I hope Sanders is having better luck with sleeping. We've got a busy day heading back to North Carolina. He's going to need it.
The airport churns with Saturday morning chaos, a sea of rolling suitcases and bleary-eyed travelers clutching coffee cups like lifelines. I spot Carly near the check-in counter, her hands full with boarding passes, while Leigh tugs at her sleeve.
"Mom! There they are!" Sanders points, bolting ahead with his bag flopping back and forth on his back.
I trail behind, dragging my roller carry-on. The sparkle and magic of our New York adventure has dimmed, like Christmas lights the morning after. No one's laughing. No one's taking videos.
Luke had dialysis this morning, and we decided to meet back up here.
"Hey," I manage a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Everything go okay this morning?"
Carly looks like I feel. She's hollow-eyed with smudged mascara. "It did. Luke feels good, so that is a relief."
Luke stands quietly beside his mother, shoulders hunched inside his oversized jacket. His face looks paler today, the circles under his eyes deeper. The week has taken its toll.
Sanders nudges him with an exaggerated wink. "Bet I can beat you to the window seat."
Luke's mouth twitches into the faintest grin. "Whatever, Bro," he mumbles, but there's no energy behind it.
My throat tightens. Just days ago, they were superstars bouncing around a television studio, dizzy with excitement. Now the absence beside us feels like a physical thing. There's a Woody-shaped hole that no one wants to acknowledge.
"Gate B12," I say, checking the boarding passes. "Food court's on the way if anyone's hungry."
"Can we get Cinnabon?" Sanders asks, but his voice lacks its usual bounce.
We trudge through the terminal, a subdued procession, nothing like our arrival days before. I keep thinking about the last time Woody walked away. Different airport. Different reasons. Same hollow fut-wrenching wreckage in its wake.
I need to shake this. Maybe once we're home, I can leave all of this moping behind.
At the gate, Carly settles Leigh with her tablet while Sanders and Luke slump into adjacent seats, halfheartedly discussing some game on Luke's phone.
"Long week," Carly says, dropping into the seat beside me. Her eyes search mine. "You okay?"
"Just ready to be home." The lie slips out too fast, too practiced.
She nods, not believing me for a second. "It's weird how quickly things change, isn't it? Monday, we were strangers. By Thursday, it felt like..."
"Family," I finish, the word sticking in my throat.
The gate agent calls for boarding, and we gather our things. I watch Sanders take Luke's backpack without being asked, slinging it over his own shoulder while Luke shuffles forward.
On the plane, I make sure Sanders buckles himself into the window seat.
Carly and her kids sit across the aisle.
As we taxi, the Manhattan skyline glitters against the morning sky.
I try to locate all the buildings that are connected to these memories, where we skated, laughed, kissed, and then ended it with an argument.
"Goodbye," I whisper as the plane lifts, pretending I'm only talking about New York.
The drone of the engines rumbles through my bones, a soothing white noise that should lull me to sleep but doesn't. Sunlight spills through the small, rounded rectangle window, painting Sanders' profile in gold as he stares at his phone.
His head gradually grows heavier against my shoulder, but not from sleepiness.
He holds up my phone, and I realize he's leaning in to show me something.
"Dad DM'd me," he announces, voice bright with excitement. "He saw our new TikTok! Said Luke's statue pose was perfect."
My insides cinch, the feeling as bitterly familiar as breathing. I arrange my face into something resembling a smile.
"That's great, Honey."
I'm glad he's found time to scroll TikTok.
Sanders reads through more messages, his thumb flicking upward with practiced ease. "Look, he sent a thumbs-up emoji. And here—" He points to another blue bubble. "'Proud of you, Squirt.'"
Each word from Woody is like a small paper cut. Tiny, sharp stings that shouldn't hurt as much as they do. His absence somehow feels more present now, threaded through every message he sends our son.
Sanders continues scrolling. Then he clicks over to my photos, showing me pictures I took of them at Rockefeller Center. My chest aches at the identical dimples in their cheeks, at how easily Woody can slide in and out of our lives while leaving these perfect little moments behind.
"I just texted him that we left. He wants to know when we land," Sanders says, already typing a response. "What time? Can I tell him?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. "Mom, what time?"
"Oh. Sorry. We land at 3:05. We have a layover in Charlotte."
“Dad said he has to work tomorrow, but he can come Monday night. Can he? Please?”
The words absolutely not burn on my tongue. I clamp my jaw, swallow them back.
“We’ll see,” I manage. “Let’s get home and get settled.”
Sanders chatters on, oblivious to the war inside me. That all too familiar mix of guilt and resolve that has simmered between us since the divorce rages on, hotter than ever.
I don't want to miss him. I don't want to wonder if he's thinking about that kiss too, or if it's already filed away, forgotten beneath surgical notes and patient charts.
But I do. And I hate myself a little for it.
Sanders yawns, his enthusiasm finally winding down as the flight fatigue catches up. I kiss the top of his head, breathing in the scent of hotel shampoo and airplane snacks.
"Get some rest," I whisper, closing my eyes and pretending I'm not the one who needs it most.
Home is both familiar and strange after the bustle of Manhattan. The silence wraps around me, punctuated only by the soft rumble of the heater kicking on. I push my empty suitcase against the wall with my foot, too tired to properly stow it away.
My muscles ache as I sink onto the edge of my bed. The shower helped wash away the airport grime, but did nothing for the weight pressing against my chest.
Sanders went down quickly, the exhaustion of travel finally catching up to him after his excitement about sharing all our New York adventures with his friends tomorrow.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, working out a small tangle. No matter how many showers I take, I can still feel the phantom press of Woody's lips against mine, the memory stubbornly clinging to my skin.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen illuminating the darkened room. It's Maggie, probably. Third text tonight, checking if we made it home safely.
I also have an unanswered text from Jerry checking on us. I'm not falling into that with him again. It's his way of worming back into my routine. We've done this many times over the years.
I reach for it reluctantly, then freeze when I see the name. It's not or Jerry.
Woody.
My heart skips, then races to catch up. I stare at the notification, finger hovering over it. Why now? The last thing I need is another apology that doesn't change anything.
I tap it anyway.
Hey. Didn't want to bother y'all on travel day.
Hope you made it back in one piece. Sorry again, I had to leave, but for what it's worth, the surgery went well, and it would've been a mess if I hadn't.
I spoke to someone at Duke yesterday. They want us to come there on Tuesday.
When you have a moment, give me a call and I'll fill you in.
I read it twice. Three times. The words blur together, but certain ones stand out like neon signs: Duke. Us. Tuesday.
Heat spikes under my skin, hot and bitter. Of course. Now everything is just hunky dory. We just go back to normal.
The phone is heavy in my hand as I set it back on the nightstand without responding. I ease myself under the covers, pulling them to my chin even though I'm not cold.
"Perfect," I whisper to the empty room. "Just perfect."
Duke means Luke. Tuesday means soon. With Woody. Together.
And I'll say yes, of course. Because I always do. Because Luke matters, and Sanders cares, and somehow I've become tangled in this web where saying no really isn't an option.
I roll onto my side, staring at my phone's now-dark screen. No matter how far I run, how firmly I draw my boundaries, I can't escape Woody. We are tied together, for better or worse.