Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Lane
The highway stretches endlessly before us. I angle myself toward the passenger window, keeping as much space between us as the car allows.
My reflection stares back, all hollow-eyed, rigid-shouldered, a stranger I barely recognize.
Every mile is like a year. Every second of silence weighs a ton.
I miss Sanders' voice filling this space. His endless chatter about video games and school drama, and whatever random fact popped into his head. Without him, there's nothing to buffer the tension crackling between Woody and me.
And then "Christmas Don't Be Late," by Alvin & The Chipmunks, comes on the radio, and I can't help but smile. Thank you, universe. I needed that.
It doesn't last long, though. I can't believe he had the gall to refer to Jerry as Jerry the Jerk. Who does he think he is?
Woody's jaw looks carved from stone, that muscle twitching beneath his stubbled cheek. The dash lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines I once traced with my fingertips.
God, I want to hate him. I've practiced hating him for years. Hating him is so much easier than seeing things in him that are endearing.
Woody saying that about Jerry was helpful. I need more of that and less father-of-the-year behavior.
The memory floods back, his hands cupping my face, the shock of wanting him so badly after swearing I never would again.
Ahead, headlights streak toward us, momentarily illuminating the inside of the car. In that flash, I catch Woody's eyes flickering toward me before darting back to the road.
I swallow hard. My throat is tight, constricted with everything unsaid.
The air is so thick, suddenly making it hard to breathe. I crack the window for a fresh breath, and the cold night air rushes in. After a quick inhale and a raindrop on my face, I roll it back up.
Light rain starts to fall on the windshield.
I exhale hard through my nose, gathering courage to say something, anything, to puncture this suffocating quiet.
Woody turns on the windshield wipers, and the clunk, clunk as they move side-to-side offers a welcome rhythm to the silence.
"I didn't mean to hurt you." His voice startles me at first. I didn't expect it, especially for him to lead with what almost seems like an apology. "When I left New York."
My chest tightens. I keep my eyes fixed on the darkness beyond my window. "You think it’s just about New York, but it’s every time. And I’m so tired of letting my guard down only to be disappointed time and again. That's on me, not you, Woody."
"The surgery—"
"It's always a surgery." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "There's always something more important."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I finally turn to look at him. "You kissed me, Woody. You kissed me, and then you left. You know how hard it was for me to move on, and it's like you don't want me to fully get on with my life."
His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "Would you have preferred I didn't kiss you at all?"
The question lands like a blow. Would I?
The honest answer terrifies me too much to say aloud.
"I don't know," I whisper finally, the truth clawing its way out despite my efforts to contain it. Admitting even that much feels like stepping off a cliff. Why didn't I just say yes?! Of course I prefer you don't kiss me at all.
The darkness between us pulses with things unsaid. The heater hums, pushing warm air that doesn't touch the chill spreading through my body.
Woody flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, adjusts his grip. A sign for Wilmington flashes overhead. We have five miles to go. We can do this.
His voice breaks the quiet, low and rough. "I can't stand it," he says suddenly, not looking at me. "The thought of you with Jerry. It's always bothered me. But since New York… It's worse."
My heart stumbles. I stare straight ahead, my fingers tightening in my lap. The rawness in his tone undoes me.
I swallow, forcing air into my lungs. "There you go again, holding me back from moving on," I whisper, though my voice trembles. "Just let me go, Woody."
He doesn't answer, just glances at me, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The silence turns electric, thick with everything we can't say.
A memory flashes across my mind. Sanders, as a toddler, sits between us on the couch, Woody's arm stretched behind our son, fingers absently playing with my hair. That was before I realized I needed him more than he could give me. Before I stopped believing we could fix what was breaking.
Finally, I blurt the truth I've been choking on. "I hate myself for letting you in again. For believing even for a second that this time would be different. I know better."
His hands tighten on the wheel. "Lane—"
"No." My voice cracks. "Do you know how many times I watched you walk away? How many times I kept hoping next time would be different?"
"That's not what—"
Woody's jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
"I had to teach our son not to expect you. I had to teach myself." My chest hurts, my throat burns, but I can't stop. "And then New York happens, and for a minute there, for one stupid minute, I forgot all that."
I press my fingertips hard against my eyes, willing the burning sensation to stop.
"And Jerry?" Woody asks, his voice so low I almost miss it.
"What about Jerry? What is your obsession with him? He's not you. Is that what you need to hear?"
"No. I don’t know why. I want to be that for you, not Jerry. Are you going to marry him?"
The question hangs between us, sharp and heavy.
"No, Woody. We broke up three months ago. We aren’t getting married. We aren’t even really dating anymore."
He does an exaggerated blink and breathes in deeply through his nose.
The car slows to a stop at a red light.
"Lane." He turns in his seat, his eyes finding mine in the darkness. "I've never stopped—"
My phone erupts with the cheerful notes of "Walking On Sunshine." Jerry's name flashes on the screen.
The moment shatters. But I need to hear him finish his sentence. He never stopped…
The phone chimes once more before I silence it, shoving it deep into my pocket.
The light turns green, and his SUV idles back to life, tension crackling between us like a live wire. Neither of us speaks for the rest of the drive. What is there to say when we've ripped open old wounds only to find they never really healed?
Minutes later, Woody pulls in front of my house. The familiar sage-green porch glows beneath the streetlight, welcoming and warm.
The engine cuts, leaving us suspended in silence.
"I should go," I whisper, but my hand stays on my knee instead of reaching for the door handle.
"Lane."
The way he says my name catches in my throat. It’s not just a sound. It’s a plea.
He turns, eyes dark and raw. "I've never stopped loving you."
The words hollow me out, stealing my breath. Before I can form a thought, his hand fists in my jacket, yanking me across the console. His mouth crushes mine, hard and desperate.
Stubble scrapes my skin, the seatbelt cuts into my hip as I twist toward him. His breath is hot, spilling into my lungs like fire.
I clutch his collar, dragging him closer, my pulse roaring. His hand fists in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp, the other sliding roughly up my thigh, catching on the fabric before shoving beneath.
My middle throbs for him, yearning for his touch.
The leather seat squeaks under us. The console digs into my thigh, bruising, but I don’t move. His mouth crashes into mine, coffee on his tongue. Underneath it is something I know too well that is reckless, dangerous, him.
I moan into his mouth, shameless, my body tilting toward his like it remembers what it will do to me, how good it will feel.
Our breathing grows ragged, fogging the windows. His palm cups my breast through my shirt, thumb circling until the ache spears down low. I arch, pressing into him, greedy for more.
"Woody," I gasp, my voice breaking as his lips trail down my throat, finding the soft spot that makes me shiver.
His hand slips under the waistband of my pants, fingertips sliding over bare skin, and every nerve in my body sparks to life. I rock against him, hips begging without permission.
He presses his hand low against my stomach. The pressure makes me gasp. It’s so good, but nowhere near enough.
The sound of our need fills the car. Our gasps, the shift of denim, the squeal of leather. I can taste the edge of losing myself, of letting go, right here.
And then the thought slams through the haze like ice water.
I tense, thighs clamping down around his hand before I wrench myself back. "Stop," I pant, chest heaving. My hands are still tangled in his shirt, but my fists push against him while my forehead rests against his. "Woody, we can’t."
I want to cry. This is all I want to do, but I know the momentary pleasure will lead to more heartache. I have to think with my brain, not my body.
We are both panting, struggling to catch our breath.
The air between us burns, packed with everything we almost let happen. My skin is still buzzing, my lips swollen, my body aching for more. But I force myself to think, pressing my back hard against the seat as if distance alone can save me.
Woody swears softly, his head leaning back against his seat. He doesn't argue. His hand stays on my hip, fingers trembling, but it doesn't move. His heavy breathing slowly returns to normal, and it's everything I can muster not to jump on top of him.
I stare at him, chest heaving, my skin on fire everywhere he touched. My body is a live wire, each nerve ending awake and screaming for more.
"Lane." My name on his lips sounds like a plea.
"Don't." I shake my head, swallowing hard. "Please don't say anything. I'm not strong enough right now. No matter what, this can't happen."
The need still pulses under my skin, but guilt and fear rush in to smother it. My body screams yes. My mind claws for distance.
You might show up, but you always leave.
My own words echo back, cooling the heat in my veins. Nothing has changed. We're still the same people making the same mistakes, circling each other like planets trapped in orbit, unable to break free or come together without destruction.
I turn away, bracing myself against the door, my pulse still racing. Even with my back to him, I feel Woody's gaze on me like a physical touch.
He pulls his hand away, and the ghost of his fingers lingers on my skin, trailing fire everywhere he touched.
My throat aches with everything I won't let myself say—that I still want him, that I'm terrified of him, that this is exactly how I get hurt again. Now it isn't just my heart on the line. It's that little boy who desperately wants his parents back together.
I swallow hard and look out the window instead, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The rain has finally stopped, with droplets clinging to the window like tears. I take that as a sign. I need to get out now, before I'm not strong enough to resist him anymore.
My Christmas wreath on my front door is a blur of green and red. Home. Safety.
"Can I at least walk you to your door?"
"You don't need to do that, but thank you for the offer. Let's just put this behind us and try to remember why we divorced in the first place. I know we will always care for each other. It's natural, we share a son. But Woody, we both know it will never work. Let's just leave it there."
"But, that can't be it. Can't we at least talk?"
"It's been a long couple of weeks." I cut him off before he can say something that might break my resolve. "A lot of emotion. A lot of memories, the holidays, the working together on this emotional thing. It's just got us both a little tangled up and upside down. That's all this is."
I know it's a lie for me, but I'm assuming that is what this is for him. It's best to let that be both of our truths. I force myself to look at him, to meet those eyes that still see straight through me.
"We've been over for a long time." The words taste like ash. "We need to stay stable for Sanders. That's what matters now. Not making out in a car days before Christmas like teenagers."
His face tightens. "Is that all you think this is?"
My fingers twist in my lap. "I just know these last few days, since New York, have been hard because I let my heart go somewhere it shouldn't. I can't do that again."
I reach for the door handle, needing to escape before I crumble.
Woody's hand catches my arm. "Don't run away from this. We need to—"
I pull away sharply, his touch burning through my jacket. "We need to say goodnight."
I shove the door open and stumble out into the night air, gulping the humidity down like I've been drowning. The cold hits my flushed skin, shocking me back to reality.
Without looking back, I walk toward my empty house, each step taking me further from the mistake I almost made.
Again.