Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Woody
I push through the glass doors, my hoodie unzipped and gym bag slung over my shoulder. The December air hits my overheated skin like a slap, cool and sharp with that faint tang of salt that marks Wilmington winters.
My muscles burn in that satisfying way that only comes after I've pushed them to their limits.
For the first time since I left New York, I don't feel like there's a weight crushing my chest. The endorphins race through my bloodstream, bright and clean. I roll my shoulders, savoring the sensation.
I dig my phone from my pocket, thumbing through my messages. Still nothing from Lane. My jaw clenches involuntarily.
Eighteen hours. That’s how long my text has sat there without an answer.
Ignored, most likely. After everything in New York, the kiss, the way she looked at me under the studio lights, the easy moments, real laughter, where it felt like the walls between us finally cracked, I guess I thought we'd turned a corner. Not much. Just something. A sign the thaw between us hadn’t been my imagination.
Instead, silence. And I'm sure she'd say that’s on me. I left early, and she’ll never see it as anything but me choosing work over her and Sanders. She doesn’t understand that it wasn’t optional. It was my duty, and I did the right thing.
Still, the timing was brutal. One fluke issue during what should have been a routine hip replacement, and it very well could have torched whatever fragile ground we’d managed to gain.
It will be fine. It is fine. This is status quo for us. I was just hoping things had shifted.
The silence feels deliberate, calculated to push me away, and that irritates me more than I want to admit.
I toss my gym bag into the passenger seat of my car and slide in behind the wheel. The leather is cool against my damp back. I start the engine, letting its low hum fill the space where my thoughts keep circling back to her.
What am I doing? This is exactly why we couldn't make it work before. The push and pull, the way we both dig in our heels when we should be reaching out.
I back out of the parking lot, flipping on the radio to drown out the voice in my head that keeps replaying our argument in that hotel room.
You never choose us.
The words cut deeper than any scalpel. The worst part is, she's not entirely wrong.
I make a right turn out of the gym's lot, telling myself I'm heading home. But three blocks later, I realize I've turned toward her side of town instead. The pull toward her street grows harder to ignore with each mile marker.
"Damn it." I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.
No matter what, we aren't at the place where I can just drop in unannounced. It's not like I'm going to see her.
I drift past empty strip malls with their half-hearted Christmas displays, my SUV rumbling beneath me like a living thing.
The dashboard clock reads 6:22. It's encroaching on dinnertime, definitely too late to claim this is just about Duke's appointment on Tuesday, the reason I asked her to call me.
The sky bleeds purple and gold across the horizon, streetlights flickering on one by one. Christmas lights twinkle from eaves and bushes, growing more elaborate as I wind through the neighborhoods toward Lane's neighborhood.
My thumb brushes absently across my lower lip, and suddenly I'm back in that dim studio, Lane's mouth under mine. The ghost of her taste hits me so hard it's physical.
Cinnamon and something uniquely her rushes through my senses, causing me to shiver. A flicker of heat twists through my gut and settles lower. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable.
"Fuck." The curse comes out rough.
One reckless thought edges in: what if we tried again? Not marriage, not promises. Maybe a kiss. Maybe more. Damn, the thought of touching her skin again makes my cock hard.
I shut it down just as fast as it crept up on me.
That fantasy died eight years ago when I chose another emergency surgery over her birthday dinner, the final straw, and ended with a divorce thirteen months later.
The writing was already on the wall, though, when I missed Sanders' first steps because a patient was coding, or possibly even sooner, when I wasn't there or reachable when she went into labor.
Still, my hands steer on autopilot, the vehicle turning down familiar streets I only come down when necessary, when it has something to do with Sanders. Her street. The one with the oak trees that drop acorns like grenades in October.
I tell myself it's nothing, just passing by, curious if they're home or out running holiday errands. But when her house comes into view, my chest aches like someone's fist is squeezing my heart.
I see her by the front door with someone, haloed by soft porch light and that ridiculous glowing wreath hanging on the door. The Christmas tree sparkles through the window behind her, all those handmade ornaments Sanders brings home every year, carefully arranged.
It's fucking Jerry the Jerk. He's there, instead of me, with his arms wrapped around her. The two of them are on the front porch, locked in an embrace. A fucking Norman Rockwell painting.
Mother—. I don't finish the profanity-laced thought. He looks like he belongs there. That almost makes me madder than the fact that it's him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair, a cashmere sweater, and a collared shirt underneath.
The sight hits like a punch to the solar plexus. Jealousy flashes hot and sharp through me, followed by a shame I refuse to name. The acid in my gut curdles into anger.
"I wonder if you told him you kissed me in New York, Lane," I mutter, stepping harder on the gas.
Now I understand why she hasn't gotten back to me. She's been with him.
It's easier to be mad than hurt. Easier to call her faithless than admit I want her back.
I tear my gaze away, knuckles white on the wheel as I accelerate down the street, breath coming ragged and uneven.
"Screw it." The anger is cleaner than the longing.
The blinding surgical lights click off as I step back from the table. Six hours of steady hands, of reducing fragments that wanted to splinter apart, of lining up the shaft so it would carry her weight again.
My shoulders ache with the familiar tension, but there’s a deep steadiness under the fatigue. Mrs. Hernandez’s shattered femur is no longer a puzzle of bone shards. The intramedullary rod sits straight, the locking screws hold tight, and alignment is restored.
“Amazing work, Dr. Beamer.” Dr. Liu peels off her gown, nodding as she heads toward the door.
“Thanks. She’ll need close monitoring overnight, but I think she will heal up beautifully.”
I push into the scrub room, fluorescent light bouncing sharply off stainless steel. The air tastes of antiseptic, clean but heavy, as if fatigue itself has a scent.
The snap of my gloves echoes around the empty room as I strip them away. I tug the mask from my face, my neck popping as I roll it side to side.
Long surgery. Hard surgery. But clean. The kind that leaves no doubt when she stands again, her stride will be straight.
After I get cleaned up, I pull out my phone to check to see if Lane got back to me. The Duke appointment is tomorrow, and Lane still hasn't responded. The familiar rush of irritation rises when I see I missed her call and a text.
My heart kicks up before I can stop it. Then the memory of last night crashes through me. My mind flashes to Lane and Jerry on her porch last night, his arms around her, comfortable in a space that used to be mine. The image stings sharply enough to make me wince.
I exhale hard, scrubbing a hand through my hair before swiping up to unlock it. The screen light glares against my tired eyes as I tap her number.
The ring barely finishes before a burst of sound fills my ear.
“Dad!”
Sanders’ voice is pure sunshine, bright enough to melt through the fatigue that’s been pressing on me since dawn.
My chest loosens. I lean back against the cool tile wall, the phone warm against my ear. “Hey, buddy. Have you rested up after our big trip?”
“Yeah, I’m not tired at all.” There’s a clatter in the background. “Did your surgery go okay?”
“It sure did,” I answer, rubbing the bridge of my nose, the sting of antiseptic still clinging to my skin. “I’m sorry I had to leave, but I’m glad I was able to help the man I came home for. Prime example why you have to drink your milk and eat your broccoli!”
“It’s okay, Dad.” His acceptance is so easy it almost hurts.
“Hey,” I shift my weight, my clogs squeaking on the polished tile, “your mom called me while I was in the O.R. Is she around?”
"Nope. It was me! You promised we'd go Christmas shopping today. Remember? Are we still going?!"
The excitement in his voice makes my stomach drop. Shit. I completely forgot.
"Right. Yeah, I did." I squeeze my eyes shut, guilt crashing in. "I'll be done with my last case by one. You think you will be ready to hit the ground running around one-thirty?"
"Okay! I'll make sure that is okay with mom. I'll text you back." Sanders' laughter trails as the call ends.
I stare at the phone, my reflection distorted in its dark surface. I've got three hours for a routine knee arthroscopy with meniscus repair, to finish post-op notes, change, and get across town.
I slip the phone into my pocket. One-thirty. I can't miss that.
After a few smooth hours, the patient is sealed up and as good as new. Thank goodness there were no surprises. I'm ahead of schedule.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. I fish it from my pocket, expecting the lab with Mrs. Yablonski's numbers.
Lane's name flashes on the screen. My pulse jumps.
We'll meet you at the Target parking lot. 1:30. Please confirm because Sanders said you have another case, and I don't want to be sitting there waiting if you can't make it.
Kiss my ass might have been sweeter. Damn.
My heart races as I read it again. I can't tell if it's because I'm pissed or nervous to see her again after New York.
I stare at the text, jaw clenching until my molars ache.
This is the woman who melted against me in that studio, whose fingers threaded through my hair as if she couldn't get close enough.
Now we're back to this. Clinical. Distant. Co-parents exchanging a child like a business transaction.
I type back just as coolly.
We're good. See you then.
When I finally pull into Target's lot, winter sunlight bounces harsh and white off a sea of windshields. Lane's blue SUV sits near the entrance, Sanders's profile visible in the back seat.
I park beside her, cutting the engine.
Sanders spots me through the window, face lighting up as he waves frantically. My chest loosens just looking at him. At least someone's happy to see me.
I step out into the chilly December air and walk over to Lane's car. Sanders tumbles out of the back seat and nearly knocks me over with his exaggerated hug.
"Dad! Did you bring your credit card? Because I've got big plans."
I laugh, ruffling his hair. "Let me guess. Your mom's Christmas present?"
"And maybe something for me, too? Actually, they have this new game—"
"Maybe something for you, too. Go get in my truck. Let me talk to your mom a second." He snatches my phone out of my hand and jumps in the backseat of my car. I walk to Lane's driver's side.
Lane keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes forward. She barely glances up when I lean toward her open window, resting my forearms there uninvited.
"Thanks," I say, the word clipped and precise.
"No problem."
I hesitate, then add, "By the way, you never answered my text about Duke. I've taken tomorrow off, so I can take him if that's okay with you."
Her eyes flick toward me, hazel shifting green in this light. "Shoot. I completely forgot you texted about that. Sorry. What's the deal?"
"They asked if we could come tomorrow. Luke's going for a pre-op appointment so they are ready to roll when a kidney comes in. They want to use the opportunity to highlight the #SaveChristmas campaign and bring awareness to organ donation." I shrug, feigning indifference.
"I can come. I took the week off before New York, so I'm free," she finishes, her voice controlled.
That surprises me. I figured she'd take the out to not have to fake the whole happy family thing with me.
"Oh, cool. Then we can ride together."
She shifts the car into gear with a single nod. "Alrighty, then. I'll leave you two guys to it. Is he spending the night with you, or will he be back tonight?"
She probably wants to know if she can shack up with The Jerk.
"He can stay with me. Let's talk tonight, though, about plans for tomorrow. We can pick you up in the morning if that works."
"Yeah, we'll talk," she says as she waves and pulls forward through the open space. "Call me when y'all are done."
She sticks her hand out of her open window as she pulls out.
Well, that was about as dry as it gets. No mistaking it. She hates me.