Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Lane
I pull out of the Target parking spot faster than I mean to, the wheel stiff under my grip.
My tires thrum over the painted lines as if speed alone can put distance between me and Woody, standing there with that maddening calm on his face.
The truth is, I couldn’t sit there another second. Not with leaning into my car, his breath so close I could feel it. Not with the memory of his mouth on mine still lodged in my skin like a brand.
A week ago, I swore I knew exactly who he was. He was unreliable, unreachable, a man who would always put work and everyone else's safety first.
And yet in New York, I let myself believe the fairytale that he had grown, that he understood how to balance it. The ease and almost coordinated logistics with Sanders, the laughter, dare I say, fun.
And, oh, god, the kiss.
I was stupid enough to think maybe, just maybe, he’d changed. Until the rug gets yanked out from under me like it always does.
So yes, I was short with him. Clipped. Cold. It's the only way we will get back to where we were before this whole #SaveChristmas thing began. More like #RuinChristmas as far as I'm concerned.
I can’t afford to stand there smiling like we’re all chummy, because the truth is dangerous. The truth is, I wanted him. And wanting Woody Beamer is the quickest way back to the same heartbreak I’ve been crawling out of for essentially my entire adult life.
I just didn't know it was so close to the surface.
I tighten my grip on the wheel until my knuckles ache, promising myself tomorrow at Duke will be different. Tomorrow, I’ll keep the boundaries where they belong.
Now I have the rest of the day to myself. I'll grab groceries, finish that mountain of laundry, wrap presents, and maybe even start meal prepping for Christmas.
I can't believe it's already here. Only a week left.
Efficient. Practical. Adult.
But my chest burns with something that has nothing to do with efficiency. That lump that has been persistent the last few days creeps up my throat, and I have the annoying urge to cry. Cry over what? This is nothing new. The only thing new is that I let myself go there.
My heart pounds traitorously against my chest.
I brake too hard at a stoplight, cars blurring through my vision. I blink rapidly. Get it together.
No. I won't do this again. I won't hand him the power to wreck me again, for the umpteenth time.
Tomorrow at Duke, I'll smile for the cameras. I'll play my part as the supportive co-parent, the proud mom of the boy who started it all. I'll sit next to Woody and keep the steel walls around my heart firmly in place.
There will be no hot, steamy, adrenaline-filled kisses when no one is around.
My phone lights up on the console, vibrating against the cup holder. Jerry's name flashes across the screen.
Just checking in. Had a great time last night. Dinner again soon?
A knot pulls tightly across my chest. I don't pick it up. Jerry is safe. Jerry is consistent. Jerry would never abandon me and Sanders in a New York hotel room.
Jerry also doesn't make my skin burn with a single glance.
I turn into the Publix parking lot and cut the engine. The winter sun angles through the windshield, dust motes spinning like confetti. I close my eyes, suddenly bone-tired.
The phone buzzes again. A reminder that someone wants me, that someone has always been willing to put us first.
Leaving it in the cup holder, I reach for my grocery list instead. Focus on tasks. Cross things off. That’s how I put all of this in my rearview mirror..
I maneuver onto the quiet back roads toward home, avoiding the holiday traffic clogging Main Street. The sun melts into the horizon, painting everything in hazy gold.
My phone rings. This time, Jerry is calling.
Maybe I'm being unfair. Jerry's been nothing but good to me and Sanders. In fairness, I did tell him in clear language that I don't want to go there again with him. But I did let that hug when he arrived go on a little too long.
I tap my finger against the steering wheel, weighing my options. Finally, I swipe to answer.
"Hey, Jer. Sorry, I was in the grocery store when you texted earlier."
"No worries at all. I actually called because I have an idea and wanted to try and catch you. Are you home?" Jerry's voice flows through the speakers. It's warm, smooth, practiced.
I exhale, easing my grip on the wheel. "Just about. Why? What's up?"
"Been thinking about dinner last night." His tone brightens. "Really enjoyed it. Sanders is getting so tall. And that story about his science project had me laughing all morning."
I picture the three of us at dinner last night, Jerry leaning forward when Sanders spoke, asking follow-up questions, never once checking his phone.
"It was nice," I say honestly, surprising myself. "He liked having you there. So did I."
"The risotto with that chicken. Mwwa. Chef's kiss. Thank you for having me. It really brightened my entire Christmas season."
The flattery lands softly between us. I glance out the window at the streaked sky, molten orange fading to purple. The Christmas lights strung along fence posts twinkle as I pass.
Woody stirs storms. Jerry offers calm seas.
This dependable, gentle, safe man is what I should want. Maybe it's what I've been too stubborn to let myself have.
"Listen," Jerry continues. "The reason I called is they're doing that Christmas concert on the beach tonight. The one with the floating tree and all those lanterns? Thought maybe you and Sanders might want to go. We could grab something to eat at one of the food trucks before."
My turn signal clicks steadily as I wait at the empty intersection. Simple. Predictable. Safe.
"Lane? You still there?"
"Sure," I say finally. "That sounds nice. Well, it would just be me, though. Sanders is with his dad."
The word nice tastes dull on my tongue, but I hold onto it. Nice is safe. Nice doesn't make promises it won't keep.
Nice doesn't break you.
"Bummer, he'll miss it! But I'm thrilled to do it with you. I'll pick you up around six?" Jerry's pleased murmur hums in my ear as I turn down my street.
"Six works."
The comfort of predictability washes over me like static as I pull into my driveway. The Christmas wreath on my front door welcomes me home.
The sea breeze whispers through the palm trees wrapped in twinkling white lights, carrying strands of music across the crowded beach. I grip my jacket tighter around my shoulders, watching families sprawl on blankets and children dart between clusters of people.
The floating Christmas tree, a massive pine mounted on a barge offshore, bobs gently on the waves, its reflection rippling across the dark water.
"Beautiful night," Jerry murmurs beside me.
I nod. It is beautiful. Picture-perfect. The kind of scene that belongs on the town's tourism brochure.
The pier stretches before us, glowing under strings of golden lanterns. Salt and kettle corn mingle in the air, undercut by hints of cinnamon from a nearby vendor.
Jerry stands close enough that his arm brushes mine, his laughter warm and easy when the emcee cracks a joke about beach snowmen.
"Want another hot chocolate? They've got the peppermint kind you like."
"I'm good with this one." I fold my hands tighter around my paper cup, letting the heat seep into my palms.
A group of children in red Santa hats spins near the stage, their faces bright with wonder as fake snow drifts down from hidden machines. Couples sway together, some with eyes closed, some whispering secrets between verses of "Silent Night." Everyone looks so... content.
I try to let the scene soak in, to be present in this moment of small-town Christmas magic. This is what normal feels like. This is what I should want.
Jerry leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Your song."
The band transitions into the opening notes of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," slow and wistful. I nod, trying to focus on the melody.
But my mind drifts away from the beach, away from Jerry, back to New York. To Rockefeller Center. To Sanders between us, laughing as his blades cut across the ice. To Woody's hands steadying my waist, his fingers warm through my coat. To his eyes finding mine across the rink.
"...and then they said the carolers will—Lane? You with me?"
Jerry's voice fades to background noise. I see only Woody's face when he kissed me in that dim studio hallway, the way his hands trembled slightly against my cheeks.
I feel the unmistakable current that ran between us, electric and alive, nothing like the gentle comfort beside me now.
I force a small smile when Jerry glances over, pretending to listen, pretending to be present.
The song ends. Applause erupts around us, jolting me back to the moment. Jerry turns toward me, his eyes soft in the lantern light.
"It's getting cold. Want to come back to my place? I can start a fire and we can have a glass of wine. Would be a perfect ending to a perfect evening."
For a heartbeat, I almost let myself picture it. Ending the night in a man’s arms, closing out this strange, exhausting week with something simple, something physical, a release of all of this pent-up emotion.
But simple isn’t what's in the stars for me, apparently. I rub Jerry’s arms, pretending it’s just to warm my hands, to convince myself I need physical touch.
"Come back with me?" His voice is gentle, hopeful. He doesn’t press, but I see it, the openness, the quiet want. The Jerry who used to never hesitate now waits for me to decide.
And that’s the problem. He’s exactly what I should want. But my chest stays tight, my mind a thousand miles away.
"I’d better not," I finally say, polite smile hiding the storm inside. "I’m still wiped from New York. And tomorrow’s another full day with the drive and being on."
The Duke appointment. Cameras. Sitting beside Woody while pretending all is well and good. Pretending we're an "us."
Jerry studies my face for a second, then nods, taking the out graciously. "I understand. Maybe after y'all get back. You and Sanders can come to my house for dinner next time."
"Yeah," I say softly. "Maybe. Thank you for this. I needed it."
"Of course."
We walk toward the parking lot together, our footsteps crunching over the sand-dusted parking lot. The night is beautiful, the kind that would make any woman happy, but I'm all hollow and frustrated instead.
When did it shift? When did Jerry’s steadiness stop grounding me and start weighing me down?
Maybe before, being cared for was enough. Maybe a rebound was enough. But standing here tonight, all I feel is the weight of what we never really were.
The answer flashes through my mind: the moment Woody's lips touched mine again.
Damn him.
"Thanks for tonight," I tell Jerry at my door, meaning it but not enough.
He smiles, that sweet, uncomplicated smile that used to make my day better. "I've missed this, Lane. I know we agreed to the break-up, and these three months have shown me that isn't what I want. Don't give up on us, okay?"
Something twists inside me. Guilt? Regret? I can't name it.
"Jerry."
"I know. I know. Sorry. I'll stop. Good night, Lane."
"Goodnight, Jer. Sleep tight."
As I close the door, the warmth of the concert fades fast, leaving only the hum of the engine and the familiar ache I can't shake. His headlights slice through the empty house, illuminating the tangled mess inside me.
The crunch of tires in the front tells me it's time to put on the smile and get ready for a full day together.
Woody’s SUV eases into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the porch in the predawn light. Sanders is sitting in the backseat, waving at me through the glass. He bolts out before Woody even shifts into park.
“Ready, Mom?” Sanders asks as I open the door.
“As I’ll ever be,” I murmur, forcing a smile while locking the door behind me.
I open the car door. It smells faintly of Woody's aftershave and coffee. The same clean, sharp scent that Woody's been using since I've known him.
"Morning," Woody says evenly when I climb in. No trace of New York lingers in his tone.
I nod, arranging my face into something resembling calm. "Morning. Did you boys have a good night?"
"Yes," they both say energetically and in unison.
My fingers fumble with the seatbelt. Sitting here feels wrong. Like slipping into an old skin I can’t quite shed.
Woody glances at me, just long enough to acknowledge my presence, then fixes his eyes back on the road. His hands rest easy on the wheel, knuckles flexing as he adjusts his grip. He clears his throat.
“Sleep okay?” His voice is calm and even.
“I did,” I say, lighter than I feel. "I needed it. I'm still playing catch-up after the trip."
The corner of his mouth lifts, barely there, but enough to send a tug through my chest. My thoughts lurch sideways, unbidden, toward things better left buried. I tug my coat tighter, determined not to follow them.
Sanders chatters from the backseat, filling the silence with TikTok updates and questions about whether Luke will bring snacks.
His voice is a buffer, but it doesn’t erase the awareness pressing in on me.
The way Woody shifts lanes, thigh brushing against the console.
The rise and fall of his chest when he exhales.
This is going to be a long ride.