Chapter 21 Lane
TWENTY-ONE
Lane
I grab some jeans out of my dresser, my fingers trembling so badly I can barely grasp the heavy denim.
Everything is all wrong, starting with waking up with my ex-husband, to the lingering warmth of Woody's body still imprinted on my skin, while panic floods my system.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"Where the hell is my purse?" I mutter, scanning the room through blurred vision as I remember my steps last night after I got home. My keys are in there. Living room, maybe, where we first—
No. Focus, Lane.
Woody stands by the bed, buttoning his shirt over his firm chest, his hair mussed from sleep and our night together. His eyes track me as I move, that surgical precision settling into his features.
"I'll drive." His voice is steady, the way it gets when he's putting on his calm-under-pressure voice.
I yank my shirt over my head before I realize that it's inside out. "Do you think that's a good idea, for us to show up together like that?" My hands fumble with my zipper.
Woody walks around the bed and pulls me to him. "Lane, no one will be paying attention to how we get there."
He holds me tight, and I breathe him in. I've always loved the way he smells. For a moment, I allow myself to sink into him.
I quiet the insanity in my brain, the panic for Luke, for Carly, for our son. For the fact that I slept with my ex-husband, who I'm still in love with, after all these years.
The reality of what we're doing, getting dressed together after a night I swore would never happen again, crashes into me like a wave. Sanders. Oh god, Sanders.
"I really think I should go alone," I blurt out, shoving my feet into sneakers without socks. "It'll just confuse Sanders, seeing us like this after..." The words die in my throat.
Woody's eyes lock with mine, that gold rim around his hazel irises catching the morning light. "No. I'm coming. We're doing this together. We've been riding to all kinds of things together all week. He won't think twice. If anything, I think it will be more comforting to have us both there."
My pulse stutters. Part of me wants to scream at him to leave, to give me space to think clearly without the confusion he always brings.
But another part, the part that remembers how his hand steadied mine during different times in our past. I need him.
"Sanders can't know," I snap, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. "No hints, no confusion. He's already scared about Luke. I don't want to confuse him until we know what this is."
I want to say before this crashes and burns, but I can't bring myself to admit that. Right now, my focus is on getting to that hospital and being there for our son, for Carly.
Woody nods, calm settling over him like a cloak. "I understand. But you should know right now, Lane. I'm not going anywhere."
"Fine. But later, we talk," I mutter, pulling on my boots while balancing against the doorframe. My fingers fumble with the hem of my shirt, betraying the calm I'm desperate to project.
Woody follows me onto the front porch. His movements are precise and controlled, whereas mine are jerky with panic. The morning greets us with a curtain of gray drizzle, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes everything heavier.
The rain let up enough last night for me to go inside, but it looks like it's been coming down all night. Everything is wet and drab.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in a bubble of tension.
His aftershave clings faintly in the air, maddeningly familiar, and my mouth tastes like it’s stuffed with cotton.
What do you say to the man who was inside you hours ago when you’re racing to a hospital because your son’s friend might be dying?
Nothing. You say nothing.
The windshield wipers begin their rhythmic scrape across the glass. Squeak, thump, squeak, thump. Rain beads on the windows, distorting the world outside into watercolor smudges.
My hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into denim until my knuckles bleach white. I focus on the pressure, on the slight pain, on anything but the man beside me.
Woody drives with the same intensity he approaches surgery—fast but deliberate, no wasted movements. His jaw clenches so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding. Every few seconds, his eyes dart from the road to the digital clock on the dashboard, watching precious minutes tick away.
“Why would he have been unresponsive like that? Is that normal in his situation? Is he going to be okay, Woody? I can't imagine the thought of Sanders losing him, of Carly losing her son.” My voice cracks on the question, the fear bleeding through.
Woody doesn’t look at me right away. His jaw is tight, his focus locked on the slick highway ahead. “It's not normal,” he says finally, voice low but firm. “It could’ve been his potassium crashing, or his blood pressure dropping. Dialysis takes a toll. Sometimes the heart can’t keep up.”
My stomach twists. “So you’re saying—”
He cuts me off gently, his tone softening without losing its steadiness. “I’m saying he’s alive, Lane. If Carly got him to the hospital and they’ve stabilized him, he’s alive. Kids are resilient. They bounce back faster than you’d think.”
The reassurance helps, but only a fraction. My palms drag over my thighs, denim rough against my fingertips. “Sanders must be so scared,” I whisper. “He was right there.”
Woody exhales, a sound heavy with more than just breath. “Then we’ll be there for him. Together.”
The word together hangs in the air between us, louder than the hum of the tires or the rhythm of the wipers. I stare out at the rain-blurred trees, heart pounding, forcing myself to believe him.
The hospital sign appears through the rain. The blue and white backlit sign glows against the gray morning. Cape Fear Regional Hospital. The place where Woody saves lives. The place where our son met a boy who changed everything.
He turns into the entrance without a word, but his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
The automatic doors whoosh open as we rush into the main entrance. The bright lights hit my tired eyes while overhead announcements blare through speakers. That familiar hospital smell floods my nose.
My mouth opens to ask the receptionist where to go when I hear it.
"Mom!"
Sanders bursts from a hallway to our right, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, eyes swollen red. My heart shatters at the sight. He launches himself at me, slamming into my body with the force of his fear.
I drop to my knees instantly, catching him as his sobs break open the relative quiet of the waiting area. His small fingers clutch at my shirt, twisting the fabric while his whole body trembles against mine.
"Hey, baby," I whisper, pulling him closer. My own fears dissolve into something else, a primal instinct to shelter, to protect. "I've got you. It's okay."
I rock him gently, feeling his heartbeat hammer against mine. Behind us, I sense Woody hesitating. He kneels beside me and puts a hand on Sanders' shoulder.
"Luke's in good hands now," I murmur into Sanders' hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo mixed with what I think is popcorn. "The doctors are helping him. You don't have to be scared alone anymore."
I press my lips against his forehead, his temple, his hair—anywhere I can reach. His hiccupping sobs gradually slow as I whisper steadily against his ear. "Just breathe with me, okay? In and out."
Woody stands and walks over to Carly, who is standing near the nurses' station.
His large hand rests on her thin shoulder as she dabs at her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
Something twists in my chest. It isn't jealousy by any means, but a sharp awareness washes over me of how naturally Woody steps into the role of comforter.
Last night was like a lifetime ago.
"Luke's strong," I tell Sanders, refocusing. "Dad said his doctors are doing everything they can to help him."
Sanders pulls back slightly, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "He wouldn't wake up this morning," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Ms. Carly came in to give him his medicine, and she just kept shaking him and crying—"
"Oh, baby. I know that must have been so scary."
A nurse in dark blue scrubs appears in the doorway, her face professional but kind. "Ms. Turner. If you could step into the consultation room, please. Dr. Mitchell would like to speak with you."
"Woody, Lane. Would you please come with me?"
I can see the fear in her eyes. "Of course, Carly. I'll be right there. Woody, go ahead. I'll get the children situated."
I lead Sanders to the chair beside Leigh. I tell them both to sit tight until we get back. I pray to God that we come back with good news.
The consultation room smells of industrial cleaner. I sit rigidly in the upholstered chair beside Woody while Carly paces. My throat is tight, like someone's wrapped invisible hands around it and squeezed.
Our shoulders almost touch. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the same warmth I woke up to this morning, before everything shattered.
Dr. Mitchell enters with a tablet in hand, his scrubs crisp despite the early hour. His face reveals nothing as he walks up to Carly. Woody stands up to join them, so I follow suit.
"Ms. Turner—"
"Dr. Mitchell, please tell me my baby is okay. We are so close. I need him to hold on."
"Luke's electrolytes crashed suddenly. His potassium rose quickly, and his body couldn’t clear the fluid fast enough. That put major stress on his heart, causing it to slow dangerously, which is why he didn’t wake up.
We gave him emergency dialysis and medications to stabilize his potassium, and his heart responded well. "
My throat coils into a tight knot. I grip the edge of my chair. The fluorescent lights overhead make everything look harsh, unreal.
"He's stable now, but this shows how fragile he is. He doesn't have the reserves to bounce back from another episode."
Stable but not safe.
Stable but not safe.
Stable but not safe.
The words circle in my head like vultures. I think of Sanders outside with Leigh, his eyes wild with fear. I think of thin Luke's body hooked to machines that are keeping him alive. I think of the fundraiser, the kidney, the plans, all suddenly hanging by the thinnest thread.
Woody leans forward. "What's his potassium level now?"
"We've brought it down to 5.2," Dr. Mitchell replies matter-of-factly. "But we're watching closely."
"And his cardiac rhythm?"
"Normalized. We're keeping him on continuous monitoring."
They continue speaking, a quiet exchange of medical terms that blur together in my ears. Woody is in his element, asking precise questions, nodding at responses, his face calm but focused.
I'm lost, small, like I'm shrinking in this chair while problems tower over me. Control has always been my safety net, my way of making sense of chaos. But here, under these merciless lights, with machines keeping a little boy alive, what control do any of us really have?
"We'll need to adjust his dialysis schedule," Dr. Mitchell says. "And notify Duke, which my nurse is doing while we speak."
"We're next on the pediatric list. We finished all of the pre-op consultation yesterday," Carly blurts out, holding onto the hope that with everything in motion, we can stave off another episode, as the doctor put it.
Woody nods grimly. "When can we see him?"
"Once he's settled in the pediatric ICU. I'd say give them twenty minutes to get him set up."
Dr. Mitchell rises, tucking his tablet under his arm. "I'll update you when there's news."
I stand on legs that feel like they're made of water. Woody's hand brushes against the small of my back as we move toward the door. It's a touch so light it might have been accidental.
But I know it wasn't.
Carly asks us to stay with her for now, that she doesn't want to be alone, that's exactly what we do. Time blurs, and slowly despair recedes.
I stare at the neon clock on the wall: 1:13 PM. We've been sitting in this waiting room for almost three hours now.
The vinyl chair sticks to the back of my legs. Only two visitors besides his mom are allowed in the ICU, so I volunteered to stay out here with Leigh and then Sanders when Woody made the exchange.
Sanders leans against me, head heavy on my shoulder, his thumb tracing slow circles on my sleeve. His eyelids droop with exhaustion after crying himself empty. My poor boy, shouldering worries no nine-year-old should have to carry.
I stroke his hair, the soft strands sliding between my fingers. "He's doing better now, sweetheart. He's just very sick and needs that kidney sooner than we realized. Thanks to you, he's going to get it soon."
Sanders nods against my shoulder, silent. He hasn’t said much since seeing Luke. Luke woke long enough to talk to him, though, and that felt like a blessing.
Woody comes through the double doors in front us. My chest tightens. I’d know that walk anywhere, even if I couldn’t see his face. It’s carved into me.
I hug Sanders closer, grounding myself in him.
“Hey, guys.” Woody stops in front of us. “Luke’s resting now. He’s in good hands. Told me to tell you, ‘Be the Rizzler.’ Whatever that means.”
That gets a smile out of Sanders.
Woody sits close beside us, one hand resting on Sanders's back. His presence feels different now. Not the ex-husband who disappointed me, not the lover from last night, but something else. He's a father protecting his son, a doctor willing a child to heal.
His hand shifts, and suddenly our fingers brush where they meet on Sanders's shoulder. I can't tell if it's deliberate, and it doesn't seem to matter.
For a long moment, I don't move. His palm stays over mine, steady and grounding. The weight of it is so familiar yet foreign now that it sends warmth spreading up my arm.
Around us, life continues. Nurses murmur at their station, shoes squeak on polished tile, a vending machine hums in the corner. But in our small bubble, everything is still.
To anyone looking, we're just a family: worried parents, their child tucked safely between them. The thought catches in my chest like a burr.
My gaze drifts to the hallway beyond the glass doors where Luke rests. Stable, but not safe. That single truth hangs heavy in my chest, because none of us are.