Chapter 22 Woody
TWENTY-TWO
Woody
The fluorescent lights of Mae's Place cast everything in a too-bright glow that makes the dark outside seem even blacker.
Christmas garlands droop between ceiling tiles, and tiny lights twinkle around the windows. The place smells like grease and cinnamon. It's comfort food when comfort is exactly what we need.
I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. Across from me, Lane tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly. The small gesture yanks at something in my chest.
"And then the nurse, her name's Kelly, gave Luke three pudding cups! Three!" Sanders gestures wildly, nearly knocking over his chocolate milk. "She said heroes get extra dessert."
"That was nice of her," Lane smiles, but it doesn't touch her eyes. The shadow beneath them has deepened since morning, worry etching itself deeper with each passing hour.
"Luke said that since the GoFundMe just hit a hundred thousand dollars," Sanders continues between bites of his grilled cheese. "His mom is going to buy him, like, a million pudding cups with that."
I chuckle, grateful for my son's ability to find joy even now. "I don't think hospitals sell pudding cups in bulk, Squirt."
"Well, they should." Sanders shrugs with the absolute certainty only a nine-year-old can muster.
Lane nods along to Sanders' stream of consciousness, but I see the small crease between her eyebrows, the one that appears when she's holding back emotions. My fingers itch to reach across the table, to smooth that line away like I used to.
Instead, I grip my mug tighter, letting the burn remind me of boundaries.
After waking up beside her yesterday, before the world imploded, everything seemed possible. Now, with Luke's condition hanging over us and the weight of our history pressing down, the Formica table between us might as well be miles wide.
"Dad? Are you even listening?" Sanders waves a French fry in my face.
"Sorry, buddy. Just thinking about Luke."
"He's gonna be okay, right?" His voice drops, suddenly small. "He seems just like normal, now, even though he's stuck in that hospital."
"It looks like it, bud. He still has a long road ahead of him," I answer, hating the medical caution in my voice. Be a father, not a surgeon.
Lane reaches for Sanders' hand, her wedding ring-less finger catching the light. "Your dad made sure Luke got the very best care today. He's working really closely with Ms. Carly and his doctors to make sure everyone is on top of it."
Her acknowledgment feels like a gift I don't deserve.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up reflexively—
Jerry walks in, hair damp from the drizzle outside, scanning the room like he owns it. His gaze snags on us, narrowing before smoothing into practiced ease.
My stomach drops.
He strolls over, that self-satisfied gait of his, and greets us with a nod that skips right over me. His eyes flick from Lane to Sanders like I don’t exist. "Hey, buddy," he says warmly, leaning down just enough to ruffle Sanders’s hair.
Yeah. Screw you too, Jerry. Fucking jerk. Message received loud and clear.
"Hi, Jerry!" Sanders beams, oblivious. "We’re getting pie. It’s my favorite!"
Jerry chuckles, like Sanders just made his whole day. And maybe that’s the worst of it, that he’s good with my kid. Polished, dependable. I can’t fault him for that, even as every muscle in me itches to drag him out into the rain and remind him who Sanders’ real father is.
My gaze snags on his neatly pressed shirt, his too-shiny watch.
Safe clothes. Banker clothes. A man who will never bleed through a 20-hour surgery or miss dinner because he’s trying to save someone else’s life.
A man who’ll always be steady, always be there.
The kind of man Lane convinced herself she wanted.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in a rumpled shirt that smells faintly of fry grease.
"All out together, huh?" Jerry’s tone is casual, but the words drip like oil.
My jaw tightens. Who the hell does he think he is? If he wants to read this like some happy-family dinner, fine, let him. Better that than him knowing how raw and messy things really are.
Lane doesn’t miss a beat. “Just grabbing a quick bite with Sanders,” she says, her tone light but firm. “It’s been a long two days.”
Then, with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how to end a conversation, she adds, “Good to see you, Jer.”
Jer. My gut twists. Since when does she shorten his name like that?
I lean back in the booth, sliding an arm across the top of the seat behind Lane, a move so instinctive it’s already done before I think about it. Mine. Even if she doesn’t want me to be, even if she hates me most of the time, I want him to see it.
Touch her and die, asshole.
Jerry nods once, muttering something about catching up later, then retreats to the counter. His back is too straight, his movements too deliberate. I recognize the posture of a man holding himself together.
I exhale slowly through my nose, the tension buzzing under my skin. Lane catches my eye, her look unmistakable: don't start.
The slices of pie arrive a minute later. Apple for Sanders, cherry for Lane, pecan for me. Sanders dives in, oblivious, rattling on about Luke and Christmas presents, while Lane asks him about school break. She doesn’t even glance toward Jerry again.
But I can’t stop. Every nerve in me hums with the awareness of him sitting twelve feet away, pretending not to watch us.
I step out of the scrub room, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. The fluorescent buzz overhead is no match for the thrum in my chest. Another successful case.
But instead of celebrating, Jerry flashes across my face.
God, even thinking his name makes my jaw tighten. The way he walked into that Mae's last night like he owned the place, like he still had a claim on Lane, like Sanders belonged in his orbit instead of mine.
And Lane, smooth as glass, steady as stone. Just grabbing a quick bite, she’d said, shutting the door before I could even wedge myself in. That look she gave me across the table told me to behave, but inside I was already burning.
My phone buzzes against the desk, snapping me out of the memory. I swipe it up, scanning the caller ID. Dr. Russell, Chief of Ortho.
I clear my throat and answer. “Beamer.”
“Woody. Glad I caught you.” His voice is brisk, the kind that doesn’t waste time. “Listen. I know you're busy, so I’ll get right to it. The board has been reviewing your work. Trauma reconstructions, your fellowship outcomes, the leadership you’ve shown in the OR.”
My pen stills over the chart. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“I'm sure you're aware, but we’re about to launch a new advanced surgical wing here at Cape Fear. Robotics, complex trauma, cutting-edge ortho. It’s a major initiative, the biggest we’ve ever done.
And we want you to head it. Chief of the program.
Administrative leadership, research, national recognition.
This is career-defining, Woody. It will put your name on the map. ”
I sit back in my chair, the words echoing. Head it. Career-defining. The kind of job I’ve always chased.
“You’ll have resources most surgeons only dream of. It won’t be a cakewalk, but it’s the kind of role that changes everything. If anyone can handle the workload, it's you.”
My throat goes dry. The irony isn’t lost on me. Everything I’ve ever wanted, offered right here in Wilmington, where I can still tuck my son into bed. Where Lane is.
I always assumed I'd have to move to a bigger city to grow.
I murmur thanks, promise to review the details. The line clicks dead.
My throat goes dry. Head it up. The words echo like a drumbeat. This is the call every surgeon dreams of, the kind that pushes us to the next tier, the kind that would put me on every conference circuit, my name on papers, maybe even textbooks.
It's the culmination of everything I’ve bled and sacrificed for.
I rub a hand over my face, the memory of Lane’s good night touch still lingering. For the first time in my life, I’m not sure what everything is supposed to mean.
The Christmas tree dominates the corner of her living room, multicolored lights casting shadows across the hardwood floor. Sanders immediately dives for the remote, scrolling through streaming options while Lane moves to the kitchen.
I hover in the doorway, caught between worlds. Three nights ago, I belonged here, belonged with her. Now I'm not sure where I stand.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Lane calls over her shoulder, opening a cabinet.
"Sure, thank you. I'll have a water, please."
She nods, busying herself with something in the kitchen.
I wander the living room, letting my eyes trace over the photos, the ornaments dangling from the tree.
A few are familiar, anchors from another life.
The rest are strangers to me, like artifacts from a home I once knew but no longer belong in.
Everything is both ordinary and foreign at the same time.
I try to appear occupied while stealing glances at her. She's pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, exposing the curve of her neck where I pressed my lips last night. The memory floods my senses, her skin warm under my touch, the small sounds she made when I—
The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by Sanders' commentary on movie options from the living room. Lane's eyes finally meet mine across the room.
Before either of us can speak, her phone rings. She flips it over, and I catch Carly's name on the screen.
"Carly?" Lane answers, her voice tight. "Is everything—"
Lane's hand grips the phone like it might escape her grasp. Her face transforms from casual concern to focused intensity in seconds.
Something's happening. I move closer without thinking, drawn by the shift in Lane's posture.
"When? Are you—" She puts a hand over her other ear, concentrating.