Chapter 23 Lane #2
For a long moment, we cling, trembling, the air heavy with the sounds of our release. Then his weight sinks onto me, his chest slick against mine, his heartbeat pounding wild and uneven beneath my cheek.
The car rolls through Durham's winter morning, sunlight catching on patches of frost. Woody drives, Sanders bounces in the backseat, and I watch the university campus buildings slide past my window.
None of us talk much. What could we say that wouldn't feel small against what's happening today?
"Do you think he's awake yet?" Sanders leans forward, his seatbelt straining.
I reach back to squeeze his knee. "The nurse said he was still pretty sleepy when she called."
"But he's okay, right?" His voice carries that edge children get when they're trying not to show fear.
Woody catches my eye briefly. "The surgery went exactly as planned. That's why we're allowed to visit today."
The hospital rises before us, glass and steel gleaming in the morning light. My stomach twists with a strange mixture of hope and dread. I've spent too many hours in hospitals. After the end of our marriage, hospitals carried so much more weight than a place to go when we are sick.
We pass through sliding doors and long corridors until we reach the pediatric transplant wing. Sanders clutches a handmade card against his chest like a shield. The antiseptic smell makes my nose itch.
Luke's room is at the end of the hall. We count the signs, looking for room 212. The door stands half-open.
Inside, machines hum quietly. Luke lies small against white sheets, his skin nearly the same shade except for the pink returning to his cheeks. Tubes snake from his arms, but his eyes are open. Carly sits beside him, her fingers wrapped around his, looking like she hasn't slept in days.
She glances up at our entrance, tears immediately welling. "They said it went perfectly," she whispers, voice cracking. "The kidney's already working."
I cross to her, squeezing her shoulder, my own throat suddenly tight. Words seem inadequate. She cries softly into my hair as we hold each other.
Sanders moves straight to the bedside, peering at Luke with fascination rather than fear. "You look like a zombie," he announces, grinning.
Luke manages a weak smile. "Feel like one too."
"Braaaains," Sanders groans, making zombie hands.
The boys laugh. Luke's is careful and shallow, Sanders's loud enough for both of them. Leigh jumps up from her chair in the corner, joining their conversation with excited whispers about Luke's "battle scar."
Woody’s palm rests at the small of my back, warm and steady, grounding me as I watch these boys who’ve carried more than most adults.
Sanders has never known his parents together. Every holiday, every milestone is split down the middle. And Luke, who doesn’t even know his father, now carries the weight of a broken body on top of it all.
Yet here they are, laughing about zombies and scars, their resilience shining so bright it steals my breath.
Carly wipes tears with her sleeve. "I don't know how to thank you all. Everything happened exactly as it had to in order to save my baby. I had no idea how close we were to losing him."
"You don't have to thank us," I say, meaning it.
When I look up, Woody’s eyes catch mine across Luke’s bed. He doesn’t smile, but doesn’t need to. His steady presence, the quiet promise that we’re in this together, even if no one else knows yet, comforts me in ways I can't fully comprehend.
Carly wipes at her eyes. “We’re family now.”
By the time we say goodbye, my chest aches with gratitude and fear all tangled together.
The Turners will be here for at least another week or so before heading to their temporary home in Durham.
They will spend Christmas in the hospital.
But Luke has his kidney, the best gift any of us could have asked for.
Outside, the December air is soft and warm, almost springlike. Sanders chatters the whole ride back. “Can we all have dinner again tonight? Just us? We can’t stop just because Luke had his surgery and the #SaveChristmas Challenge is over, right?”
Woody glances at me when he answers. “What do you say, Lane? You up for it?”
I manage a nod. “Twist my arm. But I have some running around to do, first.”
Sanders whoops in the backseat, already arguing over where we should go. For a minute, it feels so easy. So ordinary. Like maybe we are what he thinks we are. A family.
But as much as I want to believe it, I know better than to trust too soon.
When we pull up to Woody’s, Sanders bounds out, and runs up and inside the door to Woody's condo. Woody looks around before leaning in and kissing me.
I swat at him playfully, not really wanting him to stop. "What? Sanders is inside. He can't see us."
"Go on, you nut. I'll text you when I'm done today."
My chest squeezes as the door closes behind him, and back out of the parking lot.
A few errands later, I push into Central Perk to meet Maggie for coffee before heading home. The smell of espresso and cinnamon snaps me out of my Christmas-rush funk and into sister mode.
Maggie’s already claimed our usual table by the window, her hands wrapped around a peppermint latte the size of her head. She has my chai waiting for me like a dutiful little sister.
“You’re late,” she says, smirking. “But you look… glowy. Suspiciously glowy.”
I roll my eyes and drop into the chair across from her. “It’s called tinted moisturizer. I've already been to Durham and back today, fought the crowd at Wal-Mart and Target. I'm not glowy, I'm exhausted.”
“Uh-huh. But you’re smiling.” She leans in, brows raised. “Like I said—suspicious.”
“You’re weird.” I take a long sip of my chai, hoping she’ll let it go.
She doesn’t. “So? New York. With Woody. How was it, really? My phone lit up after that Robin Roberts interview. Everyone is asking, ‘Are Lane and Woody back together?’ You two practically looked like the All-American family.”
I choke on my tea, coughing into my napkin. “Maggie, keep your voice down.”
Her grin widens. “Oh my God. You’re not denying it.”
I glance around, lowering my voice. “Because it’s complicated. For Sanders’s sake, we’re not… labeling it or admitting to anything. Not yet.”
Her eyes go wide, then soft. “So it is something.”
Her grin softens into something gentler. “Are you—” she lowers her voice dramatically “—knocking on Wood-y?”
I cover my face with one hand, groaning.
“I knew it!” She nearly claps, bouncing in her seat. “Oh my God, Lane. Finally. After all these years of co-parenting foreplay.”
“Maggie.”
“What? I’m happy for you. He’s still hot. He still looks at you like you hung the damn moon. And you've been 'hating him' when I knew damn good and well you didn't. It's about damn time.”
I exhale, fiddling with the sleeve of my cup. “We’re trying. Quietly. I’m just… cautious. You know how it was before. His job was always first. I can’t go back to that.”
Her sass drops for a moment. “Yeah, but you also can’t expect him not to be a surgeon. It’s who he is. The same way you’re a planner, a worrier, a list-maker. If you love him, you have to love that part, too.”
I nod, chewing on her words. “I do understand how important his work is. I just need him to understand that it can’t always be work over Sanders and me. If he can balance that, I think we stand a chance. We're still figuring it out.”
Maggie leans back, sipping her latte with a sly smile. “Sounds like you two need ground rules. Set the boundaries, then enjoy the benefits. And by benefits, I mean—”
“Stop.” My cheeks burn, but I’m laughing despite myself.
Her eyes dance. “Admit it. Practical Lane might need a little reckless Woody in her life again.”
“Maybe.” I grin into my cup, heat rising in my chest that has nothing to do with the tea.